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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


S.  F.  McLean,  bookseller, 


Thro'  Lattice -Windows 


THRO'   LATTICE-WIN- 
DOWS j»  BY  W.  J.  DAWSON 


"  And  homely  faces,  seen  where  house-fires  glow 
Thro1  lattice-windows,  not  in  vain  protest 
Earth's  humblest  life  her  happiest  and  her  best" 


I 


NEW  YORK  J*  DOUBLEDAY  AND 
McCLURE    CO.    £    MDCCCXCVII 


Copyright,  1897, 
By  Doubleday  &  McClure  Co. 


©fatbrrsttg  $res»: 
John  Wilson  and  Son,  Cambridge,  U.S.A. 


PR 

4515 

D3ZZ  £ 


I  WISH 

TO   ASSOCIATE   WITH   THIS    BOOK 

A    NAME    SIGNIFICANT 

OF    FAITHFULNESS     IN     FRIENDSHIP 

FIRMNESS    AND    WISDOM     IN    COUNSEL 

AND   SINGULAR    GENEROSITY    IN    CRITICISM 

W.  ROBERTSON    NICOLL 

TO    WHOM 

MANY    WRITERS     BESIDE    MYSELF 

OWE   A    DEBT   NOT    EASILY   COMPUTED 

AND    BUT     INADEQUATELY     ACKNOWLEDGED 

IN    HONEST    ADMIRATION 

TRUE    RESPECT 
AND   WARM    AFFECTION 


1  anwAR* 


Contents 


Pagb 

I.  Where  the  Sun  Shines   ...  i 

II.   The  Children  of  Amalek   .    .  12 

III.  Why    Thomas    Craddock    did 

not  go  to   Church  ....  35 

IV.  The  Tired  Wife 55 

V.  The  Man  from  London    ...  77 

VI.   A  Lost  Idyll 96 

VII.  The  Parsimony  of  Mrs.  Shan- 
non       117 

VIII.   The  Money  in  the  Drawer     .  138 

IX.   Potterbee's  First  Sermon  .    .  157 

X.   A   Pious  Fraud 179 

XI.   The    Extravagance   of    Solo- 
mon Gill 196 

XII.   A   Case  for  Conflict  ....  215 

XIII.    The  Last  Home 235 

vii 


Contents 

Page 

XIV.  An  Innocent  Impostor      .    .  254 

XV.   Rue  with  a  Difference    .    .  275 

XVI.   Craddock  goes  to  Church    .  303 

XVII.   Brother  Dyeball 323 

XVIII.   The     Last     Adventure     of 

Johnny    Dexter 343 

XIX.  The  Gate  of  Heaven    .    .    .  364 


vin 


Thro'  Lattice-Windows 


WHERE    THE    SUN   SHINES 

STEPPING  westward  from  South  Bar- 
ton, the  traveller  follows  for  about 
two  miles  a  deeply  shaded  lane,  which 
gradually  becomes  narrower  and  more 
uneven  till  it  climbs  abruptly  to  the  open 
moorland.  The  last  building  which  he 
passes  on  leaving  the  lane  is  a  ruined 
windmill,  which  crowns  a  little  green 
acclivity  like  a  white  lighthouse ;  and 
this  illusion  is  still  further  strengthened 
by  the  sea-like  emptiness  and  vastness 
of  the  surrounding  scenery.  Over  this 
sad-coloured  and  unpopulated  waste  the 
wind  beats  incessantly,  piping  and  cry- 
ing in  the  dusk  of  summer  days  like  a 
human  voice,  and  passing  with  a  sound 
like  the  noise  of  battling  armies  through 
the  long  nights  of  winter  tempest. 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

The  moor  is  broken  and  rugged,  sug- 
gesting equally  a  boundless  freedom 
and  a  lurking  treachery.  It  invites  and 
it  repels,  and  there  are  moments  when 
it  were  not  difficult  to  imagine  it  pos- 
sessed of  a  certain  formless  and  subtle 
spirit  of  life.  Perhaps  such  a  spirit  does 
inhabit  it;  and  thus  the  perception  of 
something  awful  and  occult  which 
haunts  the  traveller  who  penetrates 
its  solitude  is  not  altogether  fanciful. 
When  the  nimble  fire  of  dawn  burns 
along  its  tumbled  crests  in  a  hundred 
fantasies  of  colour,  it  is  easy  to  believe 
that  great  things  have  happened  there ; 
so  vast  a  theatre  can  scarce  be  without 
its  drama.  But  if  such  a  drama  be 
enacted,  it  is  one  in  which  man  has  no 
part,  executed  on  a  scale  of  plot  and 
passion  beyond  his  puny  reach,  the 
merely  human  being  everywhere  over- 
whelmed in  the  elemental  and  eternal. 

The  moor  knows  a  hundred  moods, 
but  its  greatest  moment  happens  close 
on  daybreak.  If  one  should  chance  to 
visit  Barton  Moor  at  dawn,  he  will  no- 

2 


Where  the  Sun  Shines 

tice  something  terrible  in  its  solemnity 
of  silence,  and  will  hold  his  breath. 
From  time  to  time,  at  inevitable  inter- 
vals,a  faint  stir  of  air  runs  through  the 
yellow  gorse,  as  though  the  world 
breathed  in  its  dreams.  Northward, 
the  broken  summits  of  the  hills  are 
stained  with  indigo ;  a  white  scarf  of 
mist  floats  along  their  base,  through 
which  the  fir-trees  rise  like  sentinels, 
silent,  plumed,  and  spectral.  Presently 
a  long  band  of  orange  light  appears  to 
eastward,  each  instant  glowing  brighter, 
as  though  it  were  a  fire  fanned  by  a 
gigantic  bellows.  Simultaneously  pink 
vapours,  floating  in  the  zenith,  coil 
themselves  into  a  roof  of  rose,  and  san- 
guine clouds  begin  to  move  in  steady 
files,  like  the  trained  battalions  of  an 
army.  The  east  glows  and  throbs  now 
like  the  mouth  of  a  mysterious  furnace. 
Six  miles  away  the  red  sail  of  a  fishing 
boat  absorbs  the  flame,  and  lies  upon 
the  water,  a  spot  of  unconsuming  splen- 
dour. A  moment  later  all  the  firma- 
ment   is    full    of  movement ;     flocks    of 

3 


Thro'   Lattice- Windows 

clouds  appear,  twisted  and  blown  by 
some  higher  current  of  the  air  into  a 
manifold  caprice  of  form,  and  each 
touched  with  gold,  or  orange,  or  tri- 
umphant crimson.  Above  the  band  of 
yellow  in  the  east,  the  eye  discovers 
seas  of  emerald,  shut  in  by  turquoise 
cliffs,  on  which  stray  argosies  of  cloud 
hang  becalmed.  At  last  a  throbbing 
splendour  pushes  up  its  rim  above  the 
distant  heights,  and  a  sudden  lark  be- 
gins to  sing.  The  world  becomes  a 
wonder  and  a  joy,  and  the  silent  watcher 
finds  himself  a  mute  spectator  of  the 
birth-throes  of  creation. 

In  more  ways  than  one,  this  untu- 
tored moorland  claims  kinship  with  the 
neighbouring  sea,  to  which  it  presents 
many  obscure  but  palpable  resem- 
blances. When  the  slow  purple  shadows 
move  across  it,  they  give  to  the  more 
distant  hollows  the  exact  aspect  of 
curved  waves,  which  carry  darkness  in 
their  bosoms;  and,  at  times,  white  sea- 
gulls may  be  seen  floating  motionless 
or    sailing    low   over  these  long-ranged 

4 


Where  the  Sun  Shines 

immobile  crests.  On  the  northerly- 
horizon  many  fir-plumed  promontories 
push  themselves  out  into  this  uncharted 
solitude  in  a  sort  of  shore-line ;  and 
there  is  a  sound  of  waters,  too,  for  in- 
numerous  tiny  streams  hurry  through 
the  channels  of  the  peaty  soil,  gathering 
here  and  there  into  shallow  pools,  which 
glitter  blue  in  the  distance  with  reflec- 
tions of  the  eternal  upper  depths.  Even 
the  white  road  which  zigzags  over  this 
immense  expanse  suggests  a  thin  track 
of  foam  on  dark  and  boundless  waters. 
It  is  the  one  faint  yet  enduring  record 
which  man,  with  all  his  age-long  effort, 
has  been  able  to  inscribe  on  this  pri- 
meval wilderness —  his  scrawled  signa- 
ture on  a  blank  page ;  or,  to  follow 
our  ocean  simile,  the  one  signal  that 
humanity  has  passed  this  way,  as 
some  bubbling  track  upon  the  soli- 
tary sea  declares  the  vanished  keels  of 
destiny. 

It  is  perhaps  because  man  has  been 
so  visibly  repulsed  on  Barton  Moor, 
that  here  nature  often  meets  us  with  a 

5 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

certain  air  of  tranquil  amenity,  and  even 
magnanimity,  as  of  one  who  can  afford 
to  be  generous.  She  appears  no  longer 
in  the  grotesque  disguise  of  a  partial 
civilisation,  and  makes  no  scruple  to 
disclose  the  naked  wonder  of  her  loveli- 
ness. The  plough  has  never  turned 
this  soil,  the  sower  never  passed  across 
the  smoking  furrow ;  yet  here  is  a 
spacious  beauty,  and  a  wild  riot  of 
vitality  not  discovered  in  the  most 
fertile  pastures  of  the  plain.  Nowhere 
does  the  sunset  linger  longer  in  rich 
saturations  of  ethereal  colour ;  nowhere 
is  the  air  so  brisk  and  pleasant;  no- 
where does  the  soil  distil  such  pungent 
fragrances.  The  whole  effect  is  of  a 
vital  and  contented   desolation. 

Following  this  exposed  and  lonely 
moorland  road,  by  many  miniature  de- 
clivities and  heights,  the  traveller  finds 
at  last  the  fifth  milestone,  and  with  it 
the  summit  and  boundary  of  the  moor. 
The  rolling  purple  waves  end  abruptly, 
as  though  arrested  by  a  magic  wand ; 
they  hang  poised,  as  in  the  act  of  break- 

6 


Where  the  Sun  Shines 

ing,  over    a  broad  and  pleasant  valley. 
This  is  the  valley  of  the  Bar. 

The  valley  is  some  two  miles  in 
breadth,  and  five  or  six  in  length.  It 
is  a  land  of  orchards,  pastures,  and 
white  farmhouses,  where  the  passing  of 
a  thousand  years  has  altered  little  in 
the  essential  aspects  of  human  life.  A 
clear  stream  flows  softly  through  the 
valley,  till  it  gains  the  ocean  at  St. 
Colam,  whose  clustering  masts  and 
glittering  church-vane  complete  the 
perspective  to  the  west.  To  the  east- 
ward, piled  upon  the  rising  ground 
above  the  river,  is  the  town  of  Barford. 
On  Sabbath  mornings,  when  the  air  is 
still,  the  bells  of  Barford  and  St.  Colam 
discourse  antiphonies  along  this  happy 
valley;  and,  on  stormy  nights  when 
Atlantic  gales  are  blowing,  the  noise  of 
the  sea  murmurs  in  the  hills  as  in  some 
vast  and  convoluted  shell. 

Barford  is  a  town  by  courtesy,  a  vil- 
lage in  reality,  but  with  many  pleasant 
features  of  the  English  hamlet  yet  dis- 
tinguishable.     The    houses    crowd    to- 

7 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

gether  in  the  High  Street,  with  some 
vague  purpose  of  municipal  cohesion, 
but  beyond  it  they  elbow  one  another 
in  a  growing  distance  in  the  frankest 
scorn  of  uniformity.  Outstanding  gable- 
chimneys  buttress  every  cottage ;  win- 
dows look  out  on  you  from  unexpected 
angles.  Lilac  and  laburnum,  with  here 
and  there  a  crimson  fuchsia,  stand  on 
guard  at  each  porched  doorway ;  it 
would  seem  that  each  was  built  for  no 
other  purpose  but  the  picturesque.  Bees 
murmur  in  the  streets,  and  blazoned 
butterflies  float  unnoticed.  Here  the 
country  has  no  quarrel  with  the  town, 
and  nowhere  shall  you  find  a  land  of 
happier  fertility,  more  orderly,  well 
cared  for,  habitable.  An  extraordinary 
richness  of  verdure  and  of  foliage  is 
everywhere,  and  the  trees  and  pastures 
have  a  depth  of  colour  in  them  as 
though  purple  mingled  with  their  nor- 
mal green.  The  air  has  a  sweetness  and 
a  vigour  all  its  own,  soft,  yet  exhilarat- 
ing, for  it  is  distilled  from  the  finest 
essences  of  the  moorland  and  the  sea. 

8 


Where  the  Sun   Shines 

Life  passes  slowly  in  these  parts ;  a 
few  thoughts  suffice  the  wisest,  a  few 
joys  the  happiest.  There  is  no  confusion 
of  impression,  no  sharpening  of  percep- 
tion into  morbid  subtlety.  Yet  the 
primitive  elements  of  all  human  tragedy 
are  not  wanting,  for  love  sits  beside  the 
hearth,  and  sorrow  weeps  among  the 
graves,  and  the  stream  that  eddies  under 
Barford  bridge  sings  a  song  as  ancient 
as  the  centuries. 

This  was,  for  me,  the  place  where  the 
sun  always  shone.  One  notices  the  days 
of  rain  only  as  one  grows  older ;  for 
the  child  all  days  were  sunny.  The  old 
town  glitters  through  a  mist  of  gold,  a 
faery  town,  under  a  firmament  of  divin- 
est  weather.  And  if  to  the  maturer 
mind  such  unsubstantial  allegories  be 
accepted,  and  acceptable,  no  more,  yet 
some  authentic  elements  of  joy  remain 
undiminished,  —  the  valley-wind,  pun- 
gent with  scents  of  sea  and  moorland, 
blowing  through  the  streets,  the  bees 
hiving  in  the  gardens,  the  larks  singing 
high    above    the    silent    houses    in    the 

9 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

noontide,  the  sound  of  a  mother  singing 
to  her  child  in  the  open  doorway,  of  a 
cradle  rocked  upon  a  brick  floor,  and 
of  whispering  voices  in  the  dusk  beneath 
the  honeysuckled  walls.  Amid  this 
later  roar  of  towns  one  has  but  to  close 
the  eyes  an  instant,  and  the  involuntary 
dream  comes  back,  —  the  picture  of  red 
roofs  and  white  walls  beside  the  river, 
of  an  open  market-place  with  groups  of 
quaint  and  brightly  coloured  figures,  of 
lattice-windowed  houses,  with  their  glit- 
ter of  extreme  cleanliness  and  proud 
boast  of  flowers ;  and  behind  these  lat- 
tice-windows—  what  was  not  apparent 
long  ago  —  the  busy  loom  of  life,  pro- 
ducing hour  by  hour  a  fabric  gay  with 
coloured  threads  of  comedy,  and  here 
and  there  shot  with  the  darker  threads 
of  tragedy  and  fate. 

Long  years  ago  I  marched  over  Bar- 
ford  bridge  with  imagined  sounds  of 
drum  and  trumpet  to  the  great  campaign 
of  life.  To-day  I  wander  back  again, 
quiet  and  lonely  as  a  ghost.  No  one 
waits   for  me ;    none  recognise   or  know 

10 


Where  the  Sun  Shines 

me :  there  is  a  silence  in  the  streets. 
The  bells  are  ringing  through  the  mel- 
low afternoon,  but  the  chime  is  muffled. 
The  sun  still  shines ;  but  there  is  a  sense 
of  emptiness  and  coldness  in  the  air. 
I  look  wistfully  at  the  lattice-windows 
one  by  one,  but  strange  faces  move 
behind  them.  It  makes  me  shiver. 
And  there  is  a  voice  in  the  gardens  be- 
hind the  empty  street  singing  the  bees 
home,  by  which  I  know  that  death  is 
here.  Perhaps  it  is  my  youth  only  that 
is  dead :  it  is  for  that  the  bell  is  tolling. 
I  sit  beside  the  old  bridge  and  think, 
and  one  by  one  little  humble  shreds  of 
old  romance  piece  themselves  together 
in  my  mind,  episodes  of  love  and  faith- 
fulness emerge,  uncommemorated  histo- 
ries take  significance  and  shape.  When 
the  evening  falls  I  will  pass  again  along 
the  silent  street,  tapping  lightly  at  these 
lattice-windows,  and  I  think  the  old 
familiar  faces  will  still  greet  me  there, 
and  the  unforgotten  voices  speak. 


ii 


II 

THE    CHILDREN    OF   AMALEK 

THERE  could  be  no  doubt,  none 
whatever,  that  Dexter  was  '  the 
worst  man  in  the  place.'  His  badness 
was  of  a  quite  incomparable  order,  so 
that  when  the  various  misdeeds  of  other 
Barford  sinners  were  touched  upon  in 
pious  conversation,  Dexter  was  left  out, 
as  standing  in  a  class  by  himself.  His 
drunken  shout  had  terrorised  a  generation 
of  small  mortals  in  Barford  ;  his  crapulous, 
disordered  figure  was  known  to  every- 
body. He  worked  at  intervals ;  shaved 
himself,  or  caused  himself  to  be  shaved, 
at  longer  intervals ;  washed  with  any 
true  efficiency  at  yet  longer  intervals. 
Latterly  the  only  work  he  had  done  was 
grave-digging,  which  being  an  intermit- 
tent employment  entirely  shaped  itself 
with  the  general  intermittence  of  his 
habits.     Fearful  stories  were  circulated 

12 


The  Children  of  Amalek 

about  the  manner  in  which  he  did  this 
work ;  the  unholy  songs  he  sung,  the 
desecrating  oaths  he  uttered,  the  many 
gallons  of  beer  he  consumed  in  the 
operation.  '  One  don't  grudge  him  the 
beer,'  was  the  general  verdict,  '  for  't  is 
an  awful  job,  a  live  man  a-diggin'  the 
place  where  a  dead  man  is  to  lie,  but  he 
might  keep  a  still  tongue  in  'is  head 
while  he's  at  it'  'An'  'tis  bad  old 
ancient  randy  songs  he  do  sing  too,'  re- 
marked Mrs.  Splown,  whose  house  was 
near  the  graveyard.  '  I  Ve  heerd  'em 
myself,  and  't  is  enough  to  make  a  body 
blush.  A  pity  it  is  he  don't  know  no 
hymn-tunes,  nor  somethin'  kinder  psalmy, 
like  "  My  soul  doth  magnerfy."  '  But  if 
Dexter  knew  any  psalm  tunes  he  never 
sung  them  in  the  graveyard.  He  did 
his  work  in  a  bacchanalian  spirit,  and 
many  a  girl  hurrying  past  the  church- 
yard wall  in  the  dusk  trembled  at  the 
sound  of  that  dreadful  voice,  singing 
and  laughing  from  the  deep  pit  of  death 
in  drunken  ecstasy. 

Now  it  was   a   singular   circumstance 

*3 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

that  the  worst  man  in  the  place  was  the 
father  of  two  of  the  prettiest  children, 
and  that  Polly  and  Johnny  Dexter  were 
always  clean  and  tidy.  This  was  mani- 
festly something  out  of  the  course  of 
nature,  and  provoked  the  cynicism  of 
Craddock,  who  deduced  therefrom  the 
general  law  that  Providence  worked 
upon  the  absurd  principle  of  sending 
the  prettiest  children  to  the  ugliest  and 
most  worthless  parents.  But  even  Crad- 
dock was  quite  unable  to  explain  the 
cleanliness  and  tidiness  of  the  two  chil- 
dren, except  upon  the  obviously  weak 
hypothesis  that '  they  did  it  theirselves, 
an'  it  came  nateral  to  'em.'  No  one 
had  imagination  enough  to  read  the 
real  solution  of  the  mystery,  which  was 
that  the  worst  man  in  the  place  actually 
loved  his  children,  and  cared  for  them 
with  all  the  patience  of  a  mother.  The 
fact  was  Dexter  washed  them  himself, 
and  if  any  one  had  looked  into  the 
window  of  his  ramshackle  cottage  about 
midnight,  he  would  have  seen  the  curious 
spectacle   of  this  abandoned  grave-dig- 

14 


The  Children  of  Amalek 

ger  laboriously  trying  to  darn  a  small 
pair  of  socks,  or  mend  a  rent  in  some 
article  of  diminutive  underclothing.  If, 
further,  such  a  spectator  could  have 
passed  into  the  cottage  invisibly,  and 
have  ascended  the  broken  stair,  he 
would  have  found  two  little  golden- 
haired  children  lying  asleep  in  a  perfectly 
clean  truckle-bed,  and  he  would  have 
observed  that  the  soft  calm  of  entire 
happiness  suffused  their  faces,  like  sun- 
shine on  sleeping  flowers.  For  Dexter 
kept  all  his  bad  deeds  for  the  public, 
and  his  better  deeds  for  his  home. 
From  the  day  when  his  wife  died  he 
had  steadily  gone  to  the  bad,  but  the 
one  uncorrupted  spot  in  his  heart  was 
his  love  of  his  children.  The  sight  of 
their  innocent  faces  always  recalled  him 
to  his  better  self,  and  it  afforded  him  a 
certain  ironic  satisfaction  to  remember 
how  bad  he  really  was,  and  how  good 
they  thought  him. 

'  I  wonder  you  don't  keep  straight  for 
the  sake  of  your  children,'  said  Reckitt 
to  him  severely,  one  day. 

*5 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

'  Ah,  Muster  Reckitt,'  he  replied,  with 
a  grin,  '  you  ain't  got  no  childer.  Lor', 
you  don't  know  what  little  deevils  childer 
can  be.' 

Reckitt  went  away  sadly,  with  the 
conviction  that  Dexter  was  an  incor- 
rigible brute.  But  perversity  was  one 
of  Dexter's  chief  pleasures,  and,  having 
attained  a  character  for  supreme  wicked- 
ness, not  without  considerable  exertion, 
he  did  not  wish  to  throw  it  away  lightly. 
It  pleased  him  to  know  that  he  had 
added  another  wilful  and  quite  false 
element  to  his  evil  reputation,  which 
would  further  establish  him  in  his  bad 
pre-eminence  as  the  worst  man  in  Bar- 
ford.  In  his  way  Dexter  was  an  artist. 
He  knew  how  to  live  up  to  his  part. 

It  will  be  easily  believed  that  two 
small  children,  brought  up  in  entire 
ignorance  of  any  parental  control,  or 
any  other  sort  of  control,  soon  dis- 
covered many  pleasant  ways  of  extend- 
ing their  liberties.  Dexter  disappeared 
from  his  cottage  in  Bogie's  Lane  about 
seven    in    the    morning,    and    from  that 

16 


The  Children  of  Amalek 

hour  till  evening  the  children  did  as 
they  liked.  Of  course  they  were  cap- 
tured by  Geake,  the  schoolmaster,  whose 
modes  of  taming  them  proved  wholly 
ineffectual.  They  were  quick  and  bright 
children,  who  soon  learned  to  read,  but 
at  that  point  they  stubbornly  refused  to 
follow  any  further  the  sterile  paths  of 
knowledge.  In  the  matter  of  Scripture 
Johnny  early  developed  vigorous  ten- 
dencies toward  heresy,  which,  as  Geake 
told  the  curate,  were  only  such  as  might 
be  expected  in  a  child  of  Dexter's. 
After  an  Old  Testament  lesson  one  day, 
in  which  Geake  had  dilated  at  length  on 
the  intentions  of  God  toward  the  chil- 
dren of  Amalek,  Johnny  asked  innocently 
whether  '  God  had  not  improved  a  good 
deal  since  those  days.'  The  subsequent 
castigation  which  he  received  lessened 
his  interest  in  Old  Testament  narratives, 
and  gave  to  the  act  of  truancy  a  greatly 
heightened  fascination.  When  he  and 
Polly  talked  the  affair  over  in  bed  at 
night,  they  unanimously  resolved  that 
the  children  of  Amalek  were  greatly  to 
2  *7 


Thro'    Lattice-Windows 

be  pitied,  and  they  would  have  presented 
their  votes  of  condolence  in  person,  if 
they  had  had  the  least  idea  where  these 
persecuted  children  were  to  be  found. 
Upon  the  whole  they  were  inclined  to 
believe  that  Amalek  was  a  bad  word 
that  had  some  reference  to  the  gipsies, 
and  they  spent  a  delightful  week  of 
summer  weather  on  the  moors,  looking 
in  vain  for  wandering  gipsy  children, 
that  they  might  reassure  them  as  to 
their  ultimate  destiny. 

Geake  was  very  bitter  on  the  subject 
of  these  repeated  truancies,  but,  as  he 
knew  that  it  would  be  worse  than  useless 
to  appeal  to  Dexter,  he  had  to  put  up 
with  them  as  best  he  could.  In  course 
of  time  the  affair  grew  to  the  propor- 
tions of  a  public  joke. 

'  There  go  Dexter's  brats ;  you  just 
watch  'em,'  one  person  would  say  to 
another  in  the  street.  It  was  a  sight 
quite  worth  watching.  The  two  children 
would  come  along,  hand  in  hand,  with 
a  look  of  excellent  demureness  on  their 
faces,  and  turn  up  the  road  to  the  school- 

18 


The  Children  of  Atnalek 

house  with  what  appeared  to  be  the 
most  scholarly  intentions.  But  beside 
the  school-house  wall  they  usually 
paused.  Johnny  would  stoop  to  tie  his 
shoe,  and  Polly  would  whisper  some- 
thing in  his  ear,  at  which  both  children 
would  look  at  the  sky  with  questioning 
eyes. 

'  Going? '  whispered  Polly. 

Then  Johnny  would  look  grave,  and 
thrust  his  hands  deep  into  his  patched 
knickerbockers. 

'  I  know  where  there  's  a  blackbird's 
nest,  truly.  I  heard  Billy  Smith  say  he 
was  going  after  it  this  evening.     Truly.' 

At  this  point  the  school-bell  would 
stop  ringing,  the  door  would  be  shut, 
and  if  it  were  a  fine  morning  the  song 
of  a  lark  would  fall  clear  and  sweet  out 
of  the  upper  air,  with  a  wizard  note  of 
temptation  in  it. 

'  The  door  's  shut.  It 's  no  good  to  go 
now,  is  it?  '  Johnny  would  reply,  with 
the  neatest  air  of  melancholy,  his  eyes 
nevertheless  subtly  brightened  by  the 
lark's  call. 

19 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

'No,  it's  no  good.  I'll  run  you  for 
an  apple  down  the  lane,  Johnny.'  And 
straightway  the  two  small  fugitives  would 
disappear  —  once  more  to  search  for 
those  miraculous  children  of  Amalek 
upon  the  moors. 

In  the  case  of  most  children  it  is  ex- 
ceedingly improbable  that  an  obscure 
phase  of  Old  Testament  history  would 
have  exercised  any  lasting  power  on  the 
imagination,  but  Dexter's  children  were 
not  as  other  children.  They  were  lonely 
children ;  their  life,  their  home,  their 
very  games  were  all  lonely.  A  child's 
book  they  had  never  seen ;  the  only 
book  that  approached  that  qualification 
was  a  dog's-eared  copy  of  the  '  Pilgrim's 
Progress,'  which  was  the  frequent  com- 
panion of  their  truancies  to  the  moors. 
The  sad  case  of  the  children  of  Amalek 
was  therefore  elevated  by  them  into  a 
legend  of  first-rate  importance  and  en- 
during fascination.  They  talked  about 
it  in  bed  at  night,  and  soon  wove  round 
it  a  cycle  of  subsidiary  legends.  They 
realised  a  sense  of  almost  personal  tri- 

20 


The  Children  of  Amalek 

umph  when  they  discovered  that  these 
despised  children  of  Amalek — and  of 
course  they  were  real  children  to  them 
—  once  smote  Israel  and  'possessed  the 
city  of  palm-trees.'  What  palm-trees 
were  they  could  not  imagine,  but  they 
soon  decided  that  a  group  of  stone-firs 
on  the  highest  part  of  the  moor  might 
very  well  represent  them,  and  they  took 
possession  of  them  in  the  most  matter-of- 
fact  way  in  the  name  of  Amalek.  Here 
they  kept  tryst  through  long  summer 
days,  waiting  for  these  dream-children 
of  their  fancy  to  put  in  an  appearance, 
and  discussing  gravely  from  which  part 
of  the  purple-shadowed  moorland  they 
would  make  their  approach.  In  the 
meantime  the  wind  in  the  firs  sung  them 
strange  songs,  and  Polly  spelled  through 
the  more  dramatic  passages  of  the  '  Pil- 
grim's Progress,'  with  a  marked  pref- 
erence for  the  fight  with  Apollyon,  and 
the  city  where  all  the  trumpets  blew  on 
the  other  side  of  the  river ;  and  the  two 
lonely  children  might  well  have  been 
pitied   by  some   kind  angel,  of  starred 

21 


Thro'    Lattice- Windows 

and  rainbowed  wings,  had  he  but  hap- 
pened to  have  come  that  way.  But  if 
no  angel  came,  butterflies  with  wings  of 
azure  and  beaten  gold  came,  and  dragon- 
flies  in  jewelled  armour  and  diamond 
gauze,  and  flowers,  which  are  the  stars 
of  the  earth,  grew  round  their  feet,  and 
the  gorse  like  a  burning  bush  flared  on 
every  hilltop ;  so  that  Dexter's  children 
were  supremely  happy,  and  were  in  no 
wise  to  be  pitied  by  the  urchins  into 
whose  dull  brains  Geake  was  engaged  in 
whacking  and  thumping  the  rule  of 
three.  Their  one  perennial  disappoint- 
ment was  that,  although  they  had  found 
the  city  of  palm-trees  right  enough,  and 
had  saved  their  lunch  as  long  as  possible 
every  day,  with  the  vague  notion  that 
they  must  be  prepared  to  show  due 
hospitality  to  the  hereditary  foes  of 
Israel  if  they  came,  yet  these  mysteri- 
ous, persecuted,  and  forlorn  children  of 
Amalek  never  came  —  doubtless,  through 
some  misunderstanding  of  the  reception 
that  awaited  them,  and  a  deadly  fear  of 
Geake  and  the  town  police  force. 

22 


The   Children   of  Amalek 

But  one  has  only  to  wait  long  enough 
and  the  miraculous  is  sure  to  happen, 
and  one  day  the  children  of  Amalek 
really  arrived. 

They  were  very  brown,  dirty,  and  hun- 
gry, and  made  short  work  of  the  frugal 
lunch  that  was  pityingly  offered  them. 
They  then  explained  that  they  belonged 
to  a  caravan,  which  was  pitched  a  mile 
away  in  Deadman's  Hollow.  Johnny 
looked  grave  at  this  information,  for 
Deadman's  Hollow  had  not  an  alluring 
sound;  but  Polly,  recognising  in  it  some- 
thing akin  to  the  Valley  of  Apollyon,  was 
all  for  an  immediate  exploration,  having 
hopes  that  she  might  even  be  permitted 
to  see  Apollyon  himself,  by  way  of  spe- 
cial favour.  She  did  not  see  that  winged 
and  armoured  figure  of  her  dreams,  but 
she  saw  a  pair  of  tall  gipsies,  who  ex- 
amined her  clothes  with  many  exclama- 
tions in  an  unknown  tongue.  She  made 
no  resistance  when  they  gave  her  boots  to 
a  grinning  child  of  Amalek  who  stood 
by,  because  she  felt  that,  after  marching 
about  all  these  years  with  the  hand  of 

23 


Thro'   Lattice- Windows 

God  against  them,  her  new  friends  might 
fairly  claim  a  little  sacrifice  on  her 
part;  and  besides,  she  had  a  natural 
preference  for  bare  feet.  The  inside 
of  the  caravan,  with  its  air  of  snugness, 
delighted  and  amazed  the  children,  and 
when  the  bony  horse  was  put  into  the 
shafts,  and  they  found  themselves  mov- 
ing away  on  the  broad  sandy  road 
toward  St.  Colam,  they  felt  the  exquisite 
delight  of  adventure.  After  a  while 
they  fell  asleep,  with  the  happiest  '  I- 
told-you-so '  consciousness  that  the 
children  of  Amalek  were  not  so  bad 
as  they  were  painted.  When  they  woke 
up  they  were  miles  away  from  the  city 
of  palm-trees,  and  instead  of  the  blow- 
ing of  trumpets  they  heard  the  organ- 
note  of  the  sea,  and  the  sons  of  Amalek 
in  violent  altercation  round  the  door  of 
the  van. 

In  the  meantime  Barford  was  enjoying 
the  trepidations  of  a  first-rate  sensation. 
Dexter  had  been  seen  running  up  the 
street  at  night  quite  sober  and  in  great 
agitation.       Geake    smiled    grimly ;     he 

24 


The  Children  of  Amalek 

alone  extracted  from  the  situation  a 
sweet  drop  of  personal  triumph.  Dex- 
ter's  children  became  the  question  of 
the  hour. 

"T  is  a  judgment  on  him,'  Mrs.  Splown 
explained.  '  You  can't  expect  but  the 
Almighty  '11  punish  a  drunken  raskell 
like  him,  what  sings  his  randy  songs 
while  he  's  a-diggin'  decent  people's 
graves.  Him  as  made  us  ain't  a-goin' 
to  put  up  wi'  a  chap  like  Dexter  for 
ever  no  more.  My  man  used  ter  go 
on  the  same  way,  an'  I  often  said  to 
him,  says  I,  "  Splown,  Him  as  is 
above  '11  have  it  outer  you  some  day 
for  your  drunken  ways,  for  all  you  blow 
the  orgin  in  the  church  a-Sundays." 
An',  sure  enough,  he  died  mysterious, 
his  liver  'aven  slipped  down  suddin,  and 
no  doctor  bein'  able  to  put  it  back  agen, 
though  it  warn't  for  want  o'  tryin',  which 
they  did  night  an'  day  for  nigh  on  three 
weeks,  which  you  could  'ear  his  groans 
on  the  other  side  the  street.  Not  but 
what  it 's  hard  the  Almighty  hev  took 
them  dear  childer,  which  He  might  hev 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

took  Dexter,  as  no  one  would  ha'  missed. 
But  that 's  jest  the  contrairy  way  things 
do  go  in  this  world,  as  might  make  one 
think  Him  as  is  above  do  forget  all 
about  it  now  an'  then,  though  God  for- 
gie  me  for  a-saying  it,  knowin'  as  the 
curate  do  lodge  wi'  me  an'  would  n't 
approve.' 

The  good  woman  thereupon  ran  in- 
doors, and,  having  spanked  as  many  of 
the  children  as  she  could  catch  as  a 
warning  against  truancy,  sat  down  and 
burst  into  tears  over  the  general  con- 
trariness of  things. 

But  when  the  third  day  came  and 
there  was  no  news  of  the  lost  children, 
public  sympathy  began  to  go  out 
strongly  toward  poor  Dexter.  The  man 
looked  so  pale  and  forlorn  that  a  heart 
of  stone  might  have  pitied  him.  People 
began  to  remember  that  the  worst  man 
in  the  place  was  a  human  creature. 
The  Misses  Splashett,  of  the  Red  House, 
a  pair  of  dear  withered  spinsters,  who 
had  the  most  definite  convictions  on  the 
origin  and  destiny  of  the  world,  did  in- 

26 


The  Children  of  Amalek 

deed  send  him  a  few  tracts  of  a  some- 
what inflammatory  description,  but  as 
they  were  accompanied  by  a  large  bas- 
ket of  provisions,  including  cakes  made 
with  their  own  frail  hands  after  a  special 
recipe  transmitted  through  ten  genera- 
tions of  Splashetts,  their  conduct  might 
be  confidently  accounted  to  them  for 
righteousness.  Dexter  became  a  sort 
of  inverted  hero.  It  was  remembered 
that  he  had  always  been  kind  to  the 
children,  and  a  man  who  had  known 
him  in  St.  Colam  in  earlier  days  in- 
dustriously spread  the  rumour  that  be- 
fore his  wife  died  Dexter  had  been  a 
'  reg'lar  church-goer  '  and  '  as  decent  a 
chap  as  might  be.' 

'  Ay,'  said  Craddock,  '  Dexter 's  none 
so  bad.  A  man  as  sings  at  his  work 
ain't  never  very  bad,  though  he  don't 
allers  sing  what 's  fittin'.  I  'd  liefer 
trust  him  any  day  than  a  fellow  like 
Geake,  whose  face  is  allers  screwed  up 
hard  as  though  his  mouth  was  full  o' 
sour  sloes,  an'  his  blood  run  vineger. 
I  '11  warrant  now  as  Geake  thinks  them 

^7 


Thro'   Lattice- Windows 

poor  childer  is  made  away  wi'  jest  be- 
cause they  did  n't  come  to  schule  reg'lar. 
It  'd  be  a  mighty  poor  sorter  world  if 
Geake  was  the  Lord  A'mighty.' 

Dexter's  own  view  of  the  situation 
was    pathetically  simple. 

'  I  '11  allow,'  he  said  to  the  curate, 
with  tears  streaming  down  his  face, 
'  that  I  did  n't  deserve  no  childer  like 
them.  But,  Muster  Reckitt,  I  loved  'em 
dear,  I  did.  I  promised  her  as  died  I  'd 
allers  look  well  arter  'em,  an'  so  I  hev. 
You  ask  'em  if  I  ain't  loved  'em  dear. 
An'  I  '11  tell  you  what,  Muster  Reckitt, 
if  so  be  as  God  '11  let  me  hev  'em  back, 
I  '11  never  touch  another  drop  o'  drink 
as  long  as  I  live.  Look  'e  here,  Muster 
Reckitt,  them  's  their  best  clothes,  an' 
them  's  Johnny's  little  shoes  what  I 
mended  mysel',  an'  many  a  night  I  've 
set  up  a-menden  their  little  things. 
P'raps  if  I  'd  ha'  bought  'em  some  toys 
they  would  n't  ha'  run  away,  but  some- 
way, bein'  a  man  o'  clumsy  mind,  I 
never  thought  o'  that.  It  's  hard  for 
a  man  o'  clumsy  mind  to  justly  remem- 

28 


The  Children  of  Amalek 

ber  what  little  childer  do  like.  But  I 
tried  my  best,  sir,  indeed  I  did,  an'  I 
loved  'em  dear.' 

Search  parties  went  out  upon  the 
moors,  ponds  were  dragged,  and  every 
inch  of  the  river  bank  down  to  St.  Colam 
was  sedulously  searched.  Dexter  lived 
with  the  constant  vision  before  his  eyes 
of  the  children  being  carried  up  the 
street,  Johnny's  little  hand  hanging 
limp  with  the  water  dripping  from  it,  and 
Polly  with  green  river-weed  tangled  in 
her  golden  hair.  In  his  dreams  he  heard 
the  drip  of  deathly  water,  and  saw  white 
faces,  luminously  alive,  rising  out  of  the 
green  scum  of  desolate  pools.  His 
thoughts  never  lit  upon  the  truth.  His 
dreams  turned  wholly  upon  death,  and 
held  dreadful  pictures  of  all  the  graves 
he  had  ever  dug,  in  each  one  of  which, 
as  he  stooped  to  gaze,  lay  two  still 
pale  faces,  softer  and  paler  than  the 
white  flowers  that  lay  at  their  feet,  or 
the  linen  pillow  on  which  their  heads 
rested  in  the  long  repose.  And  from 
that  dim  and  populous  land  of  dreams 

29 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

came  such  cries  and  sighs  of  infinite 
agony  and  despair  that  Dexter  woke 
trembling,  with  the  sweat  of  a  great 
terror  on  his  brow. 

In  the  meantime  the  two  children, 
after  a  week  of  most  romantic  happiness, 
had  arrived  at  the  distressing  conclusion 
that  the  children  of  Amalek  were,  after 
all,  persons  of  dubious  character,  and 
that  any  prolonged  friendship  with  them 
presented  unsuspected  difficulties.  It  is 
no  doubt  a  delightful  thing  to  be  ini- 
tiated into  the  mysteries  of  guddling 
trout  and  snaring  rabbits,  but  it  is  less 
delightful  to  find  your  clothes  gradually 
transferred  to  the  backs  of  your  instruc- 
tors. Moreover,  the  children  of  Amalek 
had  learned  many  bad  habits  in  their 
long  exile,  among  which  was  fighting 
without  cause,  and  swearing  without 
ceasing,  not  to  speak  of  a  tendency  to 
devour  their  food  with  extreme  rapidity, 
as  a  prelude  to  a  ravenous  raid  upon  the 
platters  of  their  guests.  Altogether,  a 
week  was  quite  sufficient  to  explode 
the  Amalek  legend,  and  so  it  happened 

31 


The  Children  of  Amalek 

that  when  the  master  of  the  caravan  set 
the  children  down  upon  the  road  one 
windy  October  morning,  and  gruffly 
bade  them  '  cut  along  home,'  they 
felt  a  joyous  but  unconfessed  sense  of 
release. 

But  where  was  home?  Alas,  they 
did  not  know.  The  clouds  rolled  black 
across  the  moor,  and  the  sea  bellowed 
loud  at  their  backs,  and  there  was  no 
sign  of  the  '  city  of  palms.'  The  stones 
cut  their  bare  feet,  the  rain  came  in 
gushes  like  the  spouting  of  a  geyser, 
and  never  were  there  two  more  forlorn 
little  pilgrims  on  the  forsaken  roads  of 
this  habitable  earth.  But  Polly,  being 
a  child  of  bright  imagination,  carried  off 
the  situation  with  a  fine  bravery. 

'  It 's  the  hill  Difficulty,  this  hill  is, 
Johnny.  An'  round  the  corner  I  guess 
there  's  the  Interpreter's  House.' 

'  Can  you  hear  the  trumpets  blowing 
on  the  other  side?  '  asked  Johnny,  in  a 
tearful  voice. 

'  Why,  not  yet.  Of  course !  We 
are  n't  near  far  enough.' 

31 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

'  Suppose  we  meet  'Polyon  ?  ' 

'  Oh,  but  you  won't.  He  lives  right 
away  over  there  '  —  with  a  sweep  of  a 
little  ragged  arm  in  the  general  direction 
of  America.  '  Let  me  carry  you  a  little 
bit,  Johnny.' 

'  I  'm  a  man,  and  shan't  be  carried. 
I  'm  goin'  to  take  care  of  you.  I  only 
asked  where  'Polyon  was  'cause  I  wanted 
to  fight  him,'  said  Johnny  proudly,  but 
with  manifest  untruth. 

1  Shall  I  tell  you  somethin',  Johnny?' 

•  A  tale  ?  ' 

'  No  ;   somethin'  true.' 

'What  is  it?' 

'  There  is  n't  no  real  'Polyon,  I  don't 
think.  He 's  dead  a  long  while  ago, 
truly.' 

This  refreshing  intelligence  greatly 
comforted  Johnny,  who  straightway  be- 
gan to  walk  with  much  dignity,  as 
though  he  were  personally  responsi- 
ble for  the  demise  of  that  ghostly 
enemy. 

It  was  late  at  night  when  the  two 
ragged    little    mortals    caught   sight   of 

32 


The  Children  of  Amalek 

the  veritable  '  city  of  palms  '  cresting 
the  hill  of  heather  above  Barford.  At 
that  very  hour  a  forlorn  man  was  plod- 
ding up  the  hill,  and,  standing  for  a 
moment  on  its  ridge,  he  saw  in  the 
broken  moonlight  two  fluttering  little 
figures  emerge  from  the  shadows  of  the 
tall  fir-trees. 

'  Why,  it 's  father,'  shouted  Polly. 
1  But  he  is  n't  singin',  not  a  bit.  I  guess 
he  's  sorry  'cause  we  wented  away.' 

Dexter,  at  the  sound  of  the  voice, 
rushed  forward  like  a  man  with  winged 
feet.  In  a  moment  the  fugitives  were 
in  his  arms. 

'  We  've  been  'mong  the  Malekites, 
but  when  we  wented  we  did  n't  mean  to 
stay  so  long,'  sobbed  Polly. 

1  An'  we  don't  like  them  any  more/ 
said  Johnny  gravely.  'We  love  you 
best,  father  dear.' 

Half  an  hour  later  there  was  a  great 
shout  in  Barford  High  Street.  Dexter 
was  coming  up  the  street  with  Polly 
on  his  shoulders  and  Johnny  in  his 
arms. 

3  33 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

'  Well,  to  be  sure,'  said  Mrs.  Splown, 
as  she  ran  out  to  kiss  the  children,  '  't  is 
jest  like  Scripter.  Tis  the  dead  as  is 
alive,  an'  the  lost  as  is  found.' 

'  There  's  some  one  else  as  is  found 
beside  the  childer,'  said  Dexter  joy- 
ously. 


34 


Ill 

WHY  THOMAS  CRADDOCK  DID 
NOT  GO  TO  CHURCH 

THE  reasons  why  Thomas  Craddock 
did  not  go  to  church  were,  like 
his  supposed  reasons  for  being  unmar- 
ried, somewhat  inscrutable  to  the  public, 
though  no  doubt  sufficing  to  himself. 
When  Nathaniel  Dring,  who  had  married 
his  third  wife,  and  had  been  rendered 
presumptuous  by  that  circumstance, 
started  out  one  fine  spring  morning  to 
convert  Craddock  to  the  toleration  of 
matrimony  as  asocial  institution  of  some 
importance,  it  was  generally  admitted 
that  he  got  the  worst  of  the  argument. 
For  when  Dring  asserted  with  quite 
unnecessary  effusiveness  that  he  had 
never  had  a  cross  word  with  one  of  his 
three  wives,  Craddock  merely  grunted, 
'How  monotonous,'  and  indicated  by  a 

35 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

slight  smile,  which  seemed  to  confine 
itself  to  the  corners  of  his  grim  mouth, 
that  he  regarded  Dring's  statement  as  a 
cunningly  devised  fable. 

'  Not  as  I  object  to  your  marryin'  as 
many  wives  as  you  like,'  he  added,  by 
way  of  conciliation,  '  though  when  a 
man  has  'ad  three  wives  in  seven  years, 
't  is  uncommon  like  polygamy,  which  is 
forbidden  in  the  new  dispensation.' 

'  But  marriage  is  ordained  for  the 
mutual  help,  society,  and  comfort  the 
one  ought  to  have  of  the  other,'  re- 
torted Dring,  with  a  sudden  recollection 
of  the  terms  of  the  Marriage  Service, 
with  which  his  acquaintance  was  in- 
timate and  unusual.  '  You  can't  say, 
Craddock,  but  what  you  'd  be  a  good 
deal  happier  for  a  tidy  woman  to  look 
arter  you,  an'  talk  to  you  when  you  're 
lonely.' 

'  No  doubt,  no  doubt,'  he  replied,  with 
a  gleam  in  his  grey  eyes  which  wiser 
persons  than  Dring  had  long  ago  rec- 
ognised as  dangerous.  '  But  s'pose 
she   talked   when  I  was  n't   lonely,   eh  ? 

36 


Why  Craddock  did  not  go  to  Church 

They  do,  you  know,  friend  Dring;  they 
do — at  times.  I  can't  deny  but  what 
I  've  know  'd  a  case  or  two.  Maybe 
you  Ve  know  'd  such  a  case  yourself, 
eh?" 

There  was  always  something  peculiarly 
irritating  in  the  '  eh  '  of  Thomas  Crad- 
dock.     It    was    something    between    a 
malignant  chuckle  and  the  sharp  explo- 
sive click  of  a  secret  spring,  which  one 
could  fancy  was  ingeniously  concealed  in 
his  lean  throat.     Craddock's  throat  was 
one    of   his    strong    points.     When    he 
spoke,  what  is  called  an  Adam's  apple 
shot  up  and  down  like  the  weight  on  the 
machines    for    the    trial  of  the    relative 
strength  of  men's  fists  at  fairs.     It  pos- 
sessed a    dreadful    fascination    for    chil- 
dren, and  in  the  minds  of  older  people 
was   curiously   associated   with  ideas   of 
pugnacity  —  like    the    weight    on    the 
machines  at  the  fair  again.     It  was  the 
common  belief  of  the  children  that  this 
untoward  Adam's  apple  was  the  diabolic 
instrument    which    produced    that    om- 
inous  eh  ?   and,  viewed    in  the  light  of 

37 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

natural  phenomena,  the  belief  did  not 
appear  to  be  wholly  irrational. 

'  There  ain't  enough  for  us  all,  any- 
way, an'  if  you  take  more  'n  your  share, 
it  stands  to  reason  some  o'  we  poor 
chaps  must  go  without.  We  starvin' 
chaps  do  do  it  out  o'  pure  good  nature, 
jest  to  oblige  you  greedy  chaps  —  eh?" 

At  this  point  in  the  argument,  Dring 
recollected  an  engagement,  and  saun- 
tered up  the  street  with  the  fine  affecta- 
tion of  a  man  absorbed  in  vast  affairs. 

When  he  had  gone,  Craddock  ham- 
mered vigorously  at  the  boot  that  lay 
on  his  lap,  and  said  to  himself  grimly, 
'  He  've  meekened  two  on  'em,  he  'ave ; 
I  misdoubt  but  the  third  one  '11  meeken 
him  before  he's  done  wi'  her — eh?' 
And  the  '  eh  '  sounded  more  than  ever 
like  a  malicious  chuckle. 

Craddock  was  a  man  who  suffered 
from  an  unsatisfied  thirst  for  knowledge, 
which  accounted  for  the  circumstance 
that  on  the  wall  of  the  dingy  room 
where  he  worked  at  his  shoemaking 
there    was    conspicuously    displayed    a 

38 


Why  Craddock  did  not  go  to  Church 

map  of  the  world.  When  he  was  very 
lonely  he  looked  at  the  map,  and  was 
straightway  consoled  with  the  sense  of 
the  multitudinousness  of  life ;  when  he 
was  oppressed  with  the  narrowness  of 
his  career,  he  reflected  on  the  immensity 
of  the  Atlantic  and  Pacific  Oceans,  and 
repeated  the  heights  of  the  great  moun- 
tains which  were  boldly  printed  on  the 
map.  It  caused  him  a  curious  pleasure 
=-  or  at  least  a  negation  of  pain  —  to  re- 
flect on  the  number  of  people  reported 
to  exist  in  London,  New  York,  or  Chi- 
cago, a  great  many  of  whom  were  no 
better  off  than  himself.  Chimborazo 
was  a  name  that  thrilled  him,  and  the 
Himalayas  brought  suggestions  of  infin- 
ity to  his  lonely  thoughts.  He  would 
have  liked  to  know  something  of  astron- 
omy, but  as  there  was  no  one  to  tell  him 
anything,  he  contented  himself  with 
Job's  enumeration  of  Arcturus,  and 
Orion,  and  the  sweet  influences  of  the 
Pleiades,  which  planets  he  had  tried  to 
identify  in  vain  in  his  solitary  night- 
walks  on  the  moors. 

39 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

Many  efforts  had  been  made  to  induce 
him  to  attend  public  worship  on  the 
Sunday,  but  none  had  succeeded.  He 
was  always  ready  to  receive  any  sort 
of  embassy  upon  the  subject,  but  no 
amount  of  argument  made  any  difference 
to  his  habits.  Every  Sunday  morning 
he  shaved,  put  on  a  prehistoric  blue 
coat  with  brass  buttons,  four  only  of 
which  remained,  lit  a  short  pipe,  and 
disappeared  in  the  direction  of  the 
moors.  For  some  years  he  had  been 
accompanied  by  an  old  retriever  dog, 
but  when  the  dog  died  he  never  got 
another,  and  henceforth  went  alone. 
The  mystery  of  his  proceedings  was 
further  enhanced  by  the  circumstance 
that  he  usually  carried  in  his  hand  a 
small  black  book,  not  unlike  a  Bible, 
carefully  wrapped  in  a  red  cotton  hand- 
kerchief. There  were  not  wanting  those 
who  said  that  the  book  was  doubtless 
an  atheistic  publication, —  Paine's  'Age 
of  Reason,'  the  schoolmaster  once  af- 
firmed in  unjust  conjecture,  which,  being 
destitute  of  any  element  of  proof,  did 

40 


Why  Craddock  did  not  go  to  Church 

much  to  raise  the  schoolmaster's  rep- 
utation for  pious  and  almost  preter- 
natural sagacity.  People  who  did  not 
scruple  to  discuss  every  sort  of  question 
with  Craddock  had  never  quite  ventured 
to  ask  him  what  was  the  book  he  took 
with  him  on  his  solitary  Sabbath  walks. 
Perhaps  it  was  because  they  did  not 
wish  to  destroy  the  dramatic  mystery 
which  attached  to  it ;  more  likely  it  was 
because  there  was  something  in  Crad- 
dock's  grim  mouth  which  warned  them 
not  to  go  too  far  with  him. 

It  was  not  until  Reckitt,  the  new 
curate,  came  that  Craddock's  doings  at- 
tracted wide  public  notice,  and  he  him- 
self became  a  personage.  Reckitt  was 
an  indefatigable  little  fellow,  with  strong 
views  on  the  divine  necessity  of  State 
Churches  and  the  providential  govern- 
ment of  the  world  as  displayed  in  an 
apostolical  succession.  He  was  slightly 
lame  in  one  foot,  but  his  lameness  did 
not  prevent  him  tramping  up  and  down 
in  all  weathers  in  heroic  attempts  to 
shepherd     a    scattered     and    somewhat 

4i 


Thro'   Lattice- Windows 

recalcitrant  flock.  He  never  wore  an 
overcoat  —  out  of  mere  vanity,  some 
people  said,  because  if  he  had  he  would 
have  covered  up  the  silver  cross  which 
was  conspicuously  displayed  on  his 
black  watch-ribbon.  Motherly  women, 
with  a  sound  traditional  faith  in  the 
virtues  of  flannel,  were  much  exercised 
in  their  minds  on  the  conjectural  subject 
of  his  under-clothing,  and  remarked 
that  he  did  not  look  strong,  and  that 
his  landlady,  Mrs.  Splown,  was  not  a 
person  calculated  to  exercise  a  proper 
watch  over  either  his  health  or  his 
clothing,  since  she  was  '  moithered '  with 
a  large  family,  and  was  a  person  known 
to  entertain  lax  views  on  the  airing  of 
linen.  But  the  little  curate  limped  upon 
his  heroic  way  ignorant  of  these  crit- 
icisms, and  put  so  brave  a  face  on 
matters  that  no  one  but  himself  knew 
that  according  to  the  best  medical  opin- 
ion his  lungs  were  not  good  for  more  than 
two  years'  work  at  most. 

One  day  he  met  the  schoolmaster  and 
asked    him    if  he    knew    a    man    called 

42 


Why  Craddock  did  not  go  to  Church 

Craddock, —  '  A  shoemaker,  you  know, 
a  bony,  angular  man,  with  a  long  throat 
and  a  lot  of  grey  hair  —  lives  in  Tibbit's 
Row.' 

As  every  one  in  Barford  knew  every- 
body else,  this  question  was  quite  un- 
necessary, which  fact,  however,  did  not 
prevent  the  schoolmaster  rubbing  his 
chin  meditatively,  as  if  that  operation 
helped  him  to  recall  the  well-known 
physiognomy  of  Craddock.  When  the 
aforesaid  operation  had  been  satisfac- 
torily completed,  he  admitted  cautiously 
that  he  might  have  seen  him,  pronoun- 
cing his  words  in  such  a  way  as  to  inti- 
mate that  it  was  by  no  means  his  habit 
to  notice  such  persons  as  Craddock, 
although  for  reasons  connected  with  a 
State  Church  it  might  be  the  duty  of  a 
person  in  the  apostolic  succession  to 
do  so. 

'  I  find  he  does  n't  go  to  church,'  said 
Reckitt. 

'  There  's  a  good  many  in  Barford  that 
don't,'  said  the  schoolmaster,  with  a 
fresh  rubbing  of  his  chin. 

43 


Thro'    Lattice-Windows 

'  But  he  does  n't  go  to  chapel  either. 
It  's  bad  enough  to  be  a  Dissenter,  but 
he  is  n't  even  that.  In  fact,  he  does  n't 
go  anywhere  at  all.' 

The  schoolmaster  thought  this  very 
likely,  and  being  emboldened  by  an  op- 
portunity of  explaining  Craddock's  true 
character,  which  might  never  occur  again, 
went  on  to  repeat  his  conjectural  infor- 
mation about  the  nature  of  the  book 
which  Craddock  carried  with  him  on 
his  Sunday  walks. 

The  curate  was  much  shocked.  He 
would  at  once  have  gone  to  Craddock 
and  demanded  an  explanation,  had  not 
the  schoolmaster  promptly  repudiated 
all  authority  for  his  own  statement,  and 
further  suggested  that  a  lost  sheep  like 
Craddock  should  be  treated  with  ten- 
derness, not  to  say  with  diplomacy. 

'  Well,  Geake,'  said  the  curate  at  last, 
'  perhaps  you  're  right.  I  '11  tell  you 
what  we  '11  do.  I  'm  going  to  hold  a 
public  discussion  on  the  necessity  of  a 
State  Church  in  the  schoolroom  next 
Tuesday.     Get  Craddock  to  come.     It 's 

44 


Why  Craddock  did  not  go  to  Church 

not  like  going  to  church,  you  see.  I 
think  the  man  likes  me  —  in  a  way ;  and 
if  he  comes,  perhaps  something  I  may 
say  may  bring  him  to  the  right  way  of 
thinking.' 

When  the  discussion  was  held  on  the 
following  Tuesday,  Craddock  was  there, 
to  the  great  surprise  of  everybody  and 
the  exceeding  joy  of  the  curate.  It  was 
on  this  occasion  that  Craddock's  repu- 
tation as  a  controversialist  was  finally 
established. 

It  was  generally  admitted  that  the 
curate  spoke  with  great  ability,  and  the 
deacons  of  the  old  meeting-house,  who 
had  lived  for  fifty  years  in  the  fix«ed 
opinion  that  Dissent  possessed  the  mo- 
nopoly and  only  true  patent  of  oratory, 
whatever  else  it  lacked,  were  much  sur- 
prised. There  had  never  been  a  rector 
of  Barford  with  the  slightest  capacity 
for  public  speech,  and  Reckitt  shone  all 
the  more  brightly  by  comparison  with 
generations  of  fumble-mouthed  apos- 
tolical successors.  The  curate's  perora- 
tion  was    exceedingly    impressive.     He 

45 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

compared  all  other  sects  and  churches 
to  ships  more  or  less  adrift,  whose  lights 
were  of  an  illusory  and  vanishing  char- 
acter, whereas  '  the  Church  '  —  he  did 
not  condescend  to  any  more  exact  des- 
ignation —  was  like  a  lighthouse,  stand- 
ing grandly  amid  the  storms,  founded 
on  the  immutable  rock,  and  shedding  a 
serene  perpetual  radiance  on  the  troubled 
waters  of  Time.  He  sat  down  amid 
loud  applause,  and  even  the  deacons  of 
the  old  meeting-house  could  scarce  for- 
bear to  cheer. 

It  was  then  that  Craddock  rose  from 
a  form  at  the  extreme  end  of  the  room, 
and  asked  permission  to  say  a  few  words. 
There  was  a  general  feeling  of  dismay, 
which  was  not  lessened  when  he  ignored 
the  chair,  and  pointedly  addressed  the 
curate  as  '  Muster  Reckitt,  sir.'  A  more 
inappropriate  David  for  such  a  strug- 
gle with  the  Philistine  could  not  have 
been  imagined,  and  the  deacons  of  the 
meetin'-house  were  much  grieved. 

'  Chair,  chair  !  '  cried  the  audience. 

'  Oh,  I  forgot  the  cheer,  did  I  ?  '  the 
46 


Why  Craddock  did  not  go  to  Church 

old  man  went  on  serenely.  '  Well,  then, 
I  '11  say  Muster  Cheer,  sir,  if  so  be 
that'll  suit  you  better.  I  ain't  a  man  as 
Is  give  to  public  speech,  an'  I  would  n't 
hev  got  up,  only  I  thought  maybe  as 
Muster  Reckitt  would  like  to  hear  the 
views  of  a  —  a  sorter  outsider  so  to 
speak.' 

Here  the  curate  nodded  assent,  which, 
as  several  of  the  motherly  women  re- 
marked, showed  '  a  angelic  temper  '  on 
his  part. 

'  Now  what  was  it  as  Muster  Reckitt 
did  say?  If  I  heerd  aright,  he  did  say 
as  Church  were  a  lighthouse,  which  by 
all  accounts  is  a  very  respectable  sort 
of  place,  but  not  one  as  folk  is  particu- 
lar anxious  to  live  in  —  eh?  There 's  a 
lighthouse  down  to  St.  Colam,  as  you 
may  know,  an'  I  know  all  about  it,  'cause 
my  brother  was  a  keeper  there.  Well, 
'twas  uncommon  risky  work  a-gettin'  to 
it,  to  begin  with.  'Twas  only  fine  days 
you  could  go  anigh  it,  an'  when  you  got 
there  you  did  n't  see  nothin'  to  make 
you  wish  to  stay;   an'   Muster  Reckitt, 

47 


Thro'    Lattice- Windows 

'e  says  as  Church  is  a  lighthouse  — 
eh?' 

There  was  a  burst  of  laughter  at  this 
sally,  though  I  think  it  was  mainly  pro- 
voked by  that  chuckling  eh,  which  went 
off  like  a  sharp  report,  as  though  Crad- 
dock  were  engaged  in  firing  guns  over 
the  grave  of  Reckitt's  metaphor. 

'  But  that  is  n't  all.  A  lighthouse  is 
a  cold  draughty  sorter  a  place  anyway. 
Them  as  lives  in  it  sees  the  ships  a-goin' 
past,  an'  oftentimes  wishes  they  was  on 
'em,  an'  is  sorry  enough  they  ever  give 
up  the  sea  to  start  livin'  on  a  bit  o'  rock. 
It  may  be  as  the  ships  toss  up  an'  down 
a  bit,  an'  sometimes  one  on  'em  goes 
down,  an'  her  lights  is  dowsed ;  but  't  is 
ten  times  happier  work  a-livin'  on  a  ship 
any  day  than  what  it  is  on  a  lighthouse, 
'cause  they  as  lives  on  a  ship  is  free,  an' 
they  as  lives  on  a  lighthouse  is  n't.  An' 
half  the  winter  through  the  lighthouse  is 
in  a  fog,  an'  then  her  light  ain't  much 
use.  In  a  fog,  Muster  Reckitt — or  I 
beg  pardon,  Mr.  Cheer  —  and  passon 
said  as  Church  were  a  lighthouse —  eh? 

48 


Why  Craddock  did  not  go  to  Church 

'  But  I  ask  further,  what  do  that  there 
light  upon  the  lighthouse  mean  when  so 
be  it  does  shine?  What  do  that  there 
bell  mean  when  they  ring  it  slow  and 
solemn  in  a  fog?  Muster  Reckitt  did  n't 
tell  we  that.  P'raps  he  forgot.  Well, 
I  '11  tell  him,  though  I  be  only  an  out- 
sider, so  to  speak.  The  light  an'  the 
bell  both  do  mean  same  thing.  They 
say,  "  Beware  o'  me ;  there 's  danger 
here."  And  Muster  Reckitt,  'e  said  as 
Church  were  a  lighthouse.     Eh?  ' 

Having  fired  this  last  gun  over  the 
grave  of  an  unhappy  metaphor,  Craddock 
smiled  benignly  on  the  audience,  wiped 
his  forehead  with  the  back  of  his  hand, 
and,  with  a  final  cluck  of  the  instrument 
in  his  throat,  sat  down  amid  general 
laughter. 

Now  it  happened  that  about  a  month 
after  this  famous  controversy  the  curate 
went  to  St.  Colam  to  spend  a  quiet  Sun- 
day with  his  friends.  His  winter  work 
had  tired  him  out,  and,  brave  as  he  was, 
he  was  beginning  to  doubt  if  he  could 
live  through  another  winter.  It  was  a 
4  49 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

day  of  ethereal  brightness,  with  a  suave 
and  sparkling  air,  and  in  the  afternoon 
he  was  tempted  to  walk  along  the  cliffs 
toward  a  little  deserted  church  that 
stood  on  the  cliff's  edge  about  midway 
between  St.  Colam  and  Barford.  It  was 
twenty  years  or  more  since  it  had  been 
used.  Part  of  the  tower  had  fallen,  and 
the  west  front  was  fractured.  Its  grave- 
yard hung  forlornly  over  the  sea  on  a 
gentle  slope,  and  quiet  sheep  were  feed- 
ing on  the  grassy  barrows  of  the  dead. 
Reckitt  limped  slowly  up  the  hill,  for  now 
that  he  had  no  duty  to  hold  him  taut 
he  made  no  pretence  of  energy.  He 
came  softly  over  the  crisp  turf,  entered 
the  gateless  porch,  and  was  about  to 
pass  round  the  chancel  to  the  little 
graveyard,  when  he  was  arrested  by  the 
sound  of  a  voice.  It  was  speaking  in  a 
low  monotone.  Presently  it  rose  into  a 
clear  mournful  cadence,  and  his  ear  rec- 
ognised the  sublime  phrases  of  the 
Burial  Service. 

'  Thou   knowest,  Lord,    the   secrets   of 
our  hearts;  shut  not   Thy  merciful  ears 

5° 


Why  Craddock  did  not  go  to  Church 

to  our  prayer:  but  spare  us,  Lord  most 
holy,  0  God  most  mighty,  0  holy  and 
merciful  Saviour,  Thou  most  worthy 
yudge  eternal,  suffer  us  not  at  our  last 
hour  for  any  pains  of  death  to  fall  from 
Thee.' 

There  was  a  long  pause,  and  a  skylark 
could  be  heard  singing  over  the  sea. 
Then  the  voice  began  again  : 

'  Forasmuch  as  it  hath  pleased  Al- 
mighty God  of  His  great  mercy  to  take 
unto  Himself  the  soul  of  our  dear  sister 
here  departed — 

'  No,  no  ...  O  my  God,  I  can't  say 
that,'  the  voice  broke  forth  in  sudden 
agony.  '  O  Lizabeth,  Lizabeth,  why  did 
you  leave  me?' 

The  curate  knew  not  what  to  do.  At 
first  he  had  been  ready  to  suppose  that 
an  interment  was  going  on,  but  that 
thrilling  cry,  '  0  Lizabeth}  revealed 
not  the  solemn  priest,  but  the  human 
mourner.  He  felt  that  he  had  no  right 
to  intrude  on  that  mystery  of  grief,  — 
and  yet,  what  if  there  was  some  poor 
soul  here  who   needed  comfort,  —  what 

51 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

if  God  had  given  him  this  bit  of  work 
to  do  on  this  Sabbath,  when  by  reason 
of  weakness  he  could  not  preach? 

He  stepped  softly  out  of  the  shadow 
of  the  chancel,  and  looked  over  the 
huddled  stones.  A  man  was  kneeling 
beside  one  of  them  which  looked  more 
cared  for  than  the  rest.  It  was  Crad- 
dock.  In  the  same  instant  the  two  men 
recognized  one  another. 

The  curate  was  about  to  turn  away, 
when  Craddock  beckoned  him.  He 
limped  over  the  turfy  mounds,  and  came 
to  the  old  man,  putting  out  his  hand  to 
him  as  he  came. 

'  Look,'  said  Craddock  grimly. 

The  stone  had  been  freshly  scraped 
and  lettered.  It  bore  no  memorial  verse, 
—  two  names  only  and  a  date :  — 

Elizabeth  Craddock 

and  her  Infant  Child, 

July  1 8th,   1845. 

There  was  a  lilac  bush  in  full  blossom 
on  the  grave,  and  beside  it  lay  a  worn 

52 


Why  Craddock  did  not  go  to  Church 

Book  of  Common  Prayer,  open  at  the 
Burial  Service. 

'  You  're  a  good  man,  Muster  Reckitt,' 
said  Craddock  slowly.  '  You  .  .  .  you 
understand.  I  loved  her  ...  my  Liza- 
beth  ...  an'  forty  years  don't  make  no 
difference.  I  've  come  here  every  Sun- 
day these  forty  years,  and  read  them 
same  words  over  her,  an'  I  can't  yet 
say  that  prayer  'bout  thankin'  God  it 
hev  pleased  Him  to  take  her.  .  .  .  I  've 
been  tryin'  all  these  years.  .  .  . 

'  This  is  the  Prayer  Book  we  read  to- 
gether the  night  before  we  was  married. 
That's  why  I  don't  come  to  church.  .  .  . 
I  come  where  she  is,  an'  I  think  God  '11 
understand,  an'  not  be  hard  on  me.  .  .  . 
You  '11  kep'  my  secret,  Muster  Reckitt 
—  eh?" 

For  answer  the  curate  took  Crad- 
dock's  rough  hand  in  his.  '  God  bless 
you,  Craddock,'  he  said  softly.  He 
picked  up  the  open  Prayer  Book,  and 
read  in  a  clear  voice  that  trembled  a 
little  the  prayer  for  all  sorts  and  condi- 
tions   of  men,  laying  special  emphasis 

53 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

on  the  words,  '  those  who  are  in  any 
ways  afflicted  or  distressed  in  mind, 
body,  or  estate  ;  that  it  may  please  Thee 
to  comfort  and  relieve  them  .  .  .  giving 
them  patience  under  their  sufferings, 
and  a  happy  issue  out  of  all  their  afflic- 
tions.' 

The  lark  sang  overhead,  and  the  sound 
of  the  sea  and  the  fragrance  of  the  lilac 
mingled  in  the  spring  wind. 

Craddock  stood  with  bowed  head, 
and  felt  for  one  hushed  instant  the 
passage  of  an  angel  of  peace  upon  the 
air. 


54 


IV 

THE    TIRED    WIFE 

NO  one  in  Barford  had  ever  given 
Geake  credit  for  much  heart,  and 
there  was  certainly  nothing  in  his  be- 
haviour to  encourage  the  suspicion  that 
he  possessed  such  an  organ.  He  was 
a  high-dried  looking  man,  whose  very- 
appearance  suggested  a  lack  of  the 
generous  juices  of  humanity.  His  very 
gait  had  a  mechanical  stiffness  and  pre- 
cision, and  he  was  generally  regarded 
rather  as  a  mechanism  than  a  man.  If 
he  had  any  feelings,  they  were  so  sedu- 
lously concealed  that  in  course  of  time 
their  existence  was  generally  forgotten, 
and  he  himself  was  the  last  person  to 
make  any  active  demonstration  on  their 
behalf. 

People  took  so  little    interest  in  him 
as  a  man  that,  when  he  fell  ill  during  the 

55 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

Christmas  holidays,  it  was  a  week  before 
even  Reckitt  knew  anything  about  it. 
This  may  be  taken  as  conclusive  of  the 
manner  in  which  Geake  was  generally 
regarded,  since  the  illness  of  any  one 
else  in  Barford  would  have  been  matter 
of  common  report  in  less  than  twenty- 
four  hours.  But  even  Mrs.  Splown, 
who  had  a  vampire-like  capacity  for 
scenting  out  news  of  this  kind,  and 
whose  meat  and  drink  was  the  discussion 
of  the  many  mysterious  symptoms  to 
which  human  flesh  is  heir,  knew  nothing 
about  it. 

It  was  a  morning  of  hard  frost,  black 
and  dismal,  when  Reckitt  went  to  the 
schoolhouse  to  inquire  for  the  sick  dom- 
inie, and  little  as  the  curate  was  used  to 
comfort,  he  shivered  at  the  bleak  dis- 
order of  the  house.  Books  and  papers 
lay  scattered  in  the  narrow  living-room, 
and  the  hearth  was  mountainous  with 
ash  and  half-burnt  coal.  The  window 
had  not  been  opened  for  a  week,  and 
the  air  was  stale  and  acrid.  On  the 
steep  stair  leading  to  Geake's  bedroom 

56 


The  Tired  Wife 

the  carpet  hung  in  shreds,  and  the  paper 
on  the  wall  was  discoloured  with  damp. 
In  the  bedroom  the  furniture  was  old 
and  broken.  Clothes  lay  piled  upon 
the  floor,  and  books  lay  upon  the  bed. 
It  was  not  the  squalor  of  poverty  that 
met  the  eye  ;  it  was  the  more  sorrowful 
squalor  and  confusion  of  a  house  in 
which  no  woman's  step  was  ever  heard, 
no  woman's  hand  was  ever  busy,  except 
the  hand  and  step  of  the  hireling. 

Perhaps  it  was  this  suggestion  of  the 
absence  of  woman  in  the  house  that  led 
Reckitt  to  note  particularly  a  miniature 
in  a  black  frame  that  hung  over  the  bed- 
room mantel.  It  represented  a  young 
woman,  whose  face  was  noticeable  for  a 
certain  bright  candour  which  had  all 
the  effect  of  beauty.  The  brown  hair 
was  piled  high  above  the  smooth  fore- 
head, and  the  hazel  eyes  had  a  singular 
liquid  fulness.  The  nose  was  delicately 
aquiline,  and  the  face  itself  a  perfect 
oval.  It  was  the  face  of  a  woman  made 
for  love,  and  especially  for  that  form  of 
love  which    shields    and    protects,    and 

57 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

finds    its  joy  in  serving  rather  than  in 
being  served. 

Geake,  as  he  lay  back  on  his  tousled 
pillows,  noticed  Reckitt's  eyes  seeking 
the  miniature  from  time  to  time.  They 
had  talked  of  indifferent  things,  and 
Reckitt  had  risen  to  go.  But  when 
Reckitt  put  out  his  hand  in  farewell,  he 
was  suprised  to  find  that  Geake  held  it 
fast.  A  soft  wave  of  trouble  spread 
itself  over  the  sick  man's  face.  His  lips 
moved  and  stammered.  There  was  a 
gleam  of  unusual  fire  in  his  hard  grey 
eyes. 

'  I  don't  know  why  I  should  speak,' 
said  Geake  slowly,  '  except  that  I  'm 
lonely.  I  'm  not  the  sort  of  man  who 
needs  friendship  when  I  'm  well.  But 
I  've  lain  here  a  week  in  dreadful  silence. 
.  .  .  No  one  has  come,  no  one  has 
cared.  I  've  heard  the  ice  crackle  out- 
side, the  wind  cry  at  night,  but  never  a 
step  upon  the  path.  It 's  come  home 
to  me  that  I'm  not  loved.  It's  a  ter- 
rible thing  to  feel  that.  And  once  things 
were  different.   .   .  .  O,  sir,' and  his  voice 

58 


The  Tired  Wife 

suddenly  broke  into  a  wail,  '  I  've  heard 
you  say  that  there's  something  in  human 
nature  that  makes  confession  necessary. 
It 's  true.  You  can  bear  things  in  silence 
for  thirty  years,  but  the  hour  comes 
when  you  must  speak  or  die.  And  when 
I  saw  you  looking  at  that  face,  things 
came  back  to  me  .  .  .  the  past  .  .  .  the 
pain,  the  sin  .  .  .  and  I  want  to  make 
confession.' 

Reckitt  looked  pitifully  at  the  hard 
face,  with  its  fringe  of  iron-grey  whisker, 
and  deep  lines  across  the  brows,  and  was 
about  to  speak,  when  Geake  interrupted 
him. 

'  I  don't  want  you  to  say  anything. 
There 's  a  little  warm  jet  of  feeling 
bubbling  up  in  my  heart  just  now.  If 
you  speak,  if  you  sympathise,  I  believe 
it  will  freeze  again  at  once.  Let  me 
speak  —  do  you  listen.  That 's  all  I 
ask.' 

He  put  his  hand  over  his  eyes,  and 
began  to  talk  like  a  man  in  a  dream. 

'It'll  surprise  you,  no  doubt,  sir,  to 
know  that    I  once   had  a  wife.     It 's   a 

59 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

long  time  ago,  long  before  I  came  to 
Barford.  In  those  days  I  lived  at  Bel- 
chester,  and  there  are  still  people  who 
will  tell  you  that  no  one  in  Belchester 
thirty  years  ago  had  a  better  chance  of 
happiness  than  John  Geake.  I  took 
orders  when  I  was  three-and-twenty, 
and  at  twenty-six,  mainly  by  family 
influence,  was  appointed  to  the  liv- 
ing of  St.  Peter's  in  Belchester,  and  had 
excellent  chances  of  further  preferment. 
It  was  a  small  living,  but  it  was  suffi- 
cient for  my  needs,  for  at  that  time  my 
plan  of  life  was  simple  enough.  Im- 
mediately on  my  appointment  to  the 
living  I  married  —  the  face  yonder  is 
the  face  of  my  wife.  I  don't  need  to  tell 
you  what  sort  of  woman  she  was  ;  there 
are  some  women  whose  souls  shine  in 

their  faces.' 

'  I    never    knew    you     had    been    in 

orders,'  interrupted   Reckitt.      He  felt  a 
great  pity  for  the  man. 

'  No  one  in  Barford  does  know  it,' 
rejoined  Geake  bitterly.  '  It  is  some- 
thing  I    want   to    be    forgotten.       I  've 

60 


The  Tired  Wife 

sunk  a  good  deal  since  those  days,  but 
not  nearly  so  low  as  I  deserve.' 

There  was  a  pause,  and  Geake  stirred 
uneasily.  Suddenly  he  removed  his 
hand  from  his  face,  and  sat  up  in  the 
bed.  His  hard  face  seemed  mystically 
softened,  and  when  he  began  to  speak 
again  there  was  a  new  note  in  his  voice. 

■  You  've  seen  something  of  life  and 
known  something  of  men,'  he  continued  ; 
'  has  it  ever  happened  to  you  to  know 
a  man  whose  curse  was  reticence?  I  '11 
tell  you  what  I  mean  —  it 's  not  alto- 
gether reticence  of  speech,  but  a  sort  of 
hard  constriction  in  the  heart  that  pre- 
vents a  man  giving  way  to  his  emotions, 
however  much  he  may  want  to  do  it. 
Well,  I  have  always  been  conscious  of 
it.  As  a  youth  I  was  proud  and  re- 
served. I  remember  that,  when  I  left 
home  first,  I  left  without  kissing  my 
mother.  I  wanted  to  badly  enough,  for 
my  heart  was  sore  in  me,  but  my  mon- 
strous pride  whispered  at  my  ear  that 
it  would  be  unmanly.  I  was  always 
haunted  by  a  sense  that  it  was  a  sort  of 

61 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

shameful  weakness  to  give  way  to  feeling, 
even  when  feeling  was  strongest  in  me. 
In  my  heart  I  was  constantly  rehearsing 
passionate  speeches  of  love,  but  as  sure 
as  the  time  came  to  utter  them,  a  cold 
finger  was  laid  upon  my  lips,  and  my 
heart  seemed  turned  to  iron.  As  a 
child  I  never  ran  to  kiss  my  mother  as 
the  other  children  did.  I  simply  could 
not.  I  raged  in  private  with  myself 
about  it,  and  I  could  see  by  the  grieved 
look  in  my  mother's  eyes  that  she  felt 
it ;  but  I  was  powerless  to  alter  it.  I 
was  like  a  man  chained  to  a  pillar  by 
invisible  chains,  —  a  shivering  and  starv- 
ing man  who  saw  fire  and  food,  but 
could   not  get  at  them. 

'  Well,  it  did  seem  that  when  I  first 
met  Alice  I  had  got  the  better  of  my 
difficulty.  To  my  infinite  delight  I 
found  that  I  could  speak  as  I  felt.  My 
heart  seemed  to  thaw  and  expand. 
There  was  an  almost  delirious  joy  in 
the  sense  of  freedom  from  that  inner 
obstruction  which  had  maimed  my  life. 
It  was  as  though  the  strong  flood  of  a 

62 


The  Tired  Wife 

first  love  had  broken  down  some  obsti- 
nate valve  in  my  nature,  and  my  heart 
beat  freely. 

'  For  some  weeks  after  our  marriage 
I  revelled  in  this  new  freedom.  It  was 
an  intoxicating  joy.  Merely  to  kiss 
Alice  set  every  nerve  in  me  trembling 
with  delight.  I  was  almost  afraid  of 
the  excess  of  pleasure  which  I  found  in 
the  least  contact  with  her.  It  was  a 
pleasure  that  went  through  me  like  a 
strong  wind,  and  shook  me,  as  a  wind 
shakes  a  forest.  And  in  my  ignorance 
of  myself  I  thought,  "  This  will  last  for 
ever.  This  is  the  very  love  of  which 
poets  have  sung,  and  it  has  come  to 
me."  My  whole  life  had  burst  into 
flower  at  the  touch  of  some  miraculous 
spring. 

'  I  need  n't  tell  you  that  it  did  not 
last,  that  it  all  altered,  but  it  was  by 
such  slow  degrees  that  I  was  barely 
conscious  of  it. 

'One  incident  I  remember — I  think 
it  marked  the  first  moment  of  alteration. 
We  had  gone  for  a  walk  one  afternoon 

63 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

beside  the  river,  which  was  then  in 
spring  flood.  About  a  mile  and  a  half 
from  Belchester,  the  river  flows  through 
a  small  gorge.  There  are  no  rocks,  but 
the  grass  banks  slope  steeply,  and  after 
rain  are  slippery.  Alice  was  full  of 
girlish  spirits  that  day,  and  ran  down 
the  banks  in  search  of  primroses.  I 
called  to  her  to  come  back,  for  I  was  in 
terror  lest  she  should  slip,  but  she  only 
waved  her  hand  gaily,  and  took  no 
notice.  When  she  returned  to  me  she 
affected  to  think  that  it  was  all  a  silly 
piece  of  arbitrary  conduct  on  my  part 
in  calling  her  back.  Now  it  was  really 
no  such  thing ;  it  was,  as  I  have  said, 
unselfish  terror  for  her  safety.  I  could 
have  told  her  so  in  a  word,  and  I  knew 
how  her  eyes  would  have  softened  with 
happy  tears  had  I  spoken  my  lover's 
fears  —  but  I  could  not  say  the  word. 
For  the  first  time  since  our  marriage  a 
shadow  had  come  between  us ;  the  old 
obstinate  valve  seemed  to  close  down 
again  upon  the  heart.  I  walked  on, 
brooding  and  thinking,  "  She  ought  to 

64 


The  Tired  Wife 

have  known  better.  She  might  have 
known  instinctively  what  I  felt."  I 
brooded  until  I  developed  in  myself  a 
sense  of  injury.  Her  high  spirits  only 
inflamed  this  foolish  sense  of  injury. 
That  night  I  shut  myself  up  in  my 
library,  and  went  to  bed  late.  I  did  so 
because  I  wanted  to  avoid  kissing  her. 

'  Next  morning  she  said,  with  a  sad 
little  smile  on  her  dear  face,  "  How  late 
you  were  last  night.  And  you  came  to 
bed  without  kissing  me  !  " 

'  "  Did  I?  "  I  rejoined  stupidly. 
'  "  And   you    have  n't  kissed  me  this 
morning —  yet." 

'  "  I  '11  kiss  you  now,  if  you  wish." 
'  "  You  know  what  I  wish,  dear.     But 
I  don't  want  you  to  do  things  only  be- 
cause I  wish  them." 

'  I  kissed  her,  of  course ;  but  I  re- 
alized with  a  sense  of  fear  that  I  had  to 
force  myself  to  do  so.  I  felt  just  as  I 
used  to  feel  when  a  boy  about  kissing 
my  mother.  Yet  all  the  while  my  heart 
ached  and  cried  for  her.  I  longed  to 
take  her  into  my  arms,  and  all  the  more 
5  6S 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

because  I  saw  the  pain  of  a  just  reproach 
in  her  eyes.  But  no  —  I  told  myself 
that  I  was  injured,  that  she  had  wilfully 
misinterpreted  my  motives.  Good  God, 
how  mad  and  foolish  I  was  !  How  is  it 
men  can  let  love,  which  is  the  most  pre- 
cious thing  in  all  the  world,  escape  them 
for  so  little  —  a  word,  a  glance,  a  sign? 

'  From  that  day  things  began  to  alter 
with  us.  We  never  quarrelled  —  that  is 
the  vengeance  of  the  vulgar — but  the 
atmosphere  was  changed.  In  private  I 
raged  with  myself  just  as  I  had  done 
when  a  boy.  Again  and  again  I  re- 
solved to  go  to  her  and  say  frankly, 
"  Dear  wife,  I  am  a  brute.  I  am  un- 
worthy of  you.  Forgive  me."  But 
when  the  hour  came  to  speak  I  was 
tongue-tied.  I  hung  my  head  at  the 
sight  of  that  pain  in  her  eyes,  but  I  said 
nothing.  And  as  the  days  passed,  the 
pain  seemed  to  widen  like  a  shadow,  and 
a  fixed  look  of  sorrow  came  into  her 
face. 

'  Our  means  were  narrow,  but  Alice 
took   care    that   our    house  showed  no 

66 


The  Tired  Wife 

signs  of  it.  There  was  always  the  care- 
fully prepared  meal,  and  the  more  I 
neglected  her  the  more  studious  was  she 
of  my  comfort.  As  for  me,  I  asked  no 
questions.  I  knew  we  were  not  in  debt, 
and  I  took  the  rest  for  granted.  I  was 
shut  up  in  my  library  most  of  the  day 
now,  and  knew  nothing  of  what  went 
on  in  the  house.  I  noticed,  however, 
that  at  night  she  often  seemed  strangely 
tired.  She  would  sometimes  fall  asleep 
over  a  book  she  was  trying  to  read. 
She  had  grown  thin  and  pale,  but  there 
were  reasons  to  account  for  that.  I  can 
see  her  now,  as  she  sat  there  in  the 
lamplight,  her  book  or  work  lying  on 
her  lap,  her  head  leaning  a  little  on  one 
side,  the  small  blue  veins  showing  in  her 
closed  eyelids,  the  delicate  fretwork  of 
faint  lines  running  across  her  fore- 
head. .  .  .  There  were  times  when  I 
looked  upon  her  in  a  perfect  agony  of 
thought.  I  longed  to  fall  at  her  feet  — 
I  could  have  kissed  them  in  my  abject 
shame  of  myself.  But,  as  usual,  I  was 
tongue-tied.     When  she  woke   I  would 

67 


Thro'    Lattice- Windows 

say  formally,  "  It 's  time  to  go  to  bed." 
Often  she  would  say,  "  I  can't  go  yet, 
I  must  finish  this  sewing,"  and  she  would 
point  to  a  little  garment,  the  very  sight 
of  which  ought  to  have  softened  any 
man's  heart.  I  could  have  wept  in  such 
moments,  and  I  would  have  given  worlds 
to  weep.  But  I  felt  utterly  incapable  of 
any  sign,  and  so  I  would  go  off  to  bed, 
saying  coldly,  "  I  suppose  you  know 
best."  And  for  an  hour,  and  sometimes 
hours  afterwards,  she  would  sit  there ; 
and  in  the  dead  silence  I  imagined  I 
could  hear  the  click  of  her  ceaseless 
needle,  and  every  thrust  of  it  was  a  stab 
in  my  heart. 

'  There  is  one  thing  I  have  never 
forgotten.  She  was  very  fond  of  mu- 
sic, and  in  the  first  weeks  of  our  mar- 
riage she  never  passed  an  evening 
without  playing  me  something  I  liked. 
One  night  in  this  sadder  time  I  said, 
"  You  don't  play  much  now.  Can't 
you  put  your  work  down  and  play 
something?  " 

1  I  could  see  that  she  was  pleased,  and 
68 


The  Tired  Wife 

a  little  thrill  of  the  old  joy  shot  through 
me. 

'  I  opened  the  piano  for  her,  and  ar- 
ranged the  music,  and  as  I  stooped  over 
her  I  softly  kissed  her  hair.  She  looked 
up,  with  oh,  such  a  look  —  the  look  of 
a  heart  hungry  for  love,  and  just  then 
I  felt  that  I  could  have  given  all  she 
asked.  But  I  know  not  by  what  malig- 
nity of  circumstance  I  happened  at  that 
moment  to  catch  sight  of  her  hands. 
She  had  beautiful  hands,  with  delicate, 
rosy  palms  and  slender  fingers,  —  I  had 
often  praised  and  kissed  them  in  those 
earlier  days.  But  what  I  saw  now  struck 
me  like  a  blow.  The  joints  of  the  fingers 
were  slightly  swollen,  the  palms  were 
coarsened,  and  on  the  thumb  of  the  left 
hand  there  was  a  scar  like  a  burn. 

'  "What's  this  ?"  I  said,  pointing  to 
the  scar. 

'  "  Oh,  it 's  nothing.  I  happened  to 
burn  myself  in  the  kitchen  the  other  day. 
Since  Mary  left  I  've  had  to  do  many 
things  myself,  dear,  or  I  don't  know  how 
the  house  could  have  gone  on." 

69 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

'  I  stared  and  flushed.  I  knew  per- 
fectly well  what  it  all  meant.  I  saw  for 
one  intense  moment  that  this  dear  woman 
had  made  herself  a  drudge  for  my  sake, 
—  that  all  the  comfort  of  the  house  was 
the  fruit  of  her  labour.  I  knew  precisely 
how  I  ought  to  have  felt ;  yes,  and  I  did 
feel  so.  An  inexpressible  pity  throbbed 
in  my  heart.  Those  ruined  hands  smote 
me  with  reproach.  There  was  a  sacred- 
ness  in  every  line  and  scar  of  labour 
which  they  bore.  I  had  kissed  them 
once,  when  the  skin  was  soft  as  velvet ; 
how  much  more  did  they  deserve  my 
kisses  now  —  those  sacrificial  hands  that 
had  taken  up  the  burden  of  my  house 
for  me  !  I  could  have  poured  my  heart 
out  in  torrents  of  love  —  I  felt  it  literally 
raging  within  me  like  a  flood.  But  in 
an  instant  my  old  perversity  had  mas- 
tered me.  I  fell  into  unreasoning  anger. 
I  affected  to  think  myself  disgraced  be- 
cause my  wife  had  done  menial  work. 
I  did  not  wish  to  see  her  play  with  hands 
like  these.  I  closed  the  piano  and  turned 
away. 

70 


The  Tired  Wife 

*  She  sat  quite  still,  as  if  overwhelmed 
with  painful  astonishment,  the  rough- 
ened hands  lying  on  her  lap.  Then  she 
said  gently,  "  I  'm  sorry  dear.  I  did  n't 
want  to  worry  you  about  the  servants. 
That  was  why  I  did  things  myself  which 
were  not  pleasant  to  me.  It  was  for 
your  sake,  after  all." 

'  But  I  was  already  at  the  door  of  the 
room,  and  could  not  turn  back.  If  I 
had,  everything  might  have  been  altered 
perhaps. 

'  I  went  to  bed  late  that  night,  and 
when  I  entered  the  bedroom  Alice  was 
already  asleep.  She  had  been  weeping, 
and  a  small  lace-fringed  handkerchief 
lay  beside  her  on  the  pillow.  One  hand 
was  under  the  tear-stained  cheek  —  the 
other,  with  the  scar  upon  it,  lay  on  the 
coverlet.  And  I  could  kiss  it  then  — 
fool  that  I  was  —  when  kisses  were  use- 
less ;  I  had  not  kissed  it  when  there  was 
healing  in  a  kiss. 

'  It  seemed  to  me,  when  I  looked  back 
upon  it  all,  that  this  was  the  last  time 
the  Angel  of  Opportunity  crossed  my 

71 


Thro*   Lattice-Windows 

path.  That  night  he  turned  away  from 
me  for  ever. 

'  I  knew  now  that  I  was  growing 
harder  day  by  day,  resist  as  I  would. 
I  was  in  the  curious  position  of  a  man 
who  sees  his  treasure  being  stolen  from 
him,  but  is  impotent  to  interfere.  My 
eyes  were  open  now  to  discern  what  was 
the  life,  the  real  life,  of  her  I  loved.  I 
could  not  plead  blindness.  Yet  my  pride 
prevented  me  from  confessing  that  I  saw 
anything  amiss. 

'  It  was  about  this  time  that  I  thought 
fit  to  give  a  dinner-party  to  the  Dean  of 
Belchester,  and  some  half  a  dozen  cleri- 
cal friends  and  their  wives.  Alice  fell  in 
with  my  plans  without  a  word,  though 
there  was  abundant  reason  why  no  extra 
burden  should  have  been  laid  upon  her 
at  such  a  time.  For  two  davs  before  the 
party  she  was  on  her  feet  from  morning 
till  night,  for  there  were  a  hundred  things 
to  be  done  that  no  one  else  could  do  as 
well.  When  the  night  came,  all  was  com- 
pleted to  her  satisfaction.  She  called 
me    out  of  the   library,   and    asked    me 

72 


The  Tired  Wife 

timidly  how  I  liked  the  table.  It  looked 
beautiful,  with  its  fresh-cut  flowers,  and 
some  old  silver  we  had  borrowed  of  my 
mother.  The  party  also  was  a  great 
success ;  the  only  thing  that  marred  my 
pleasure  was  that  Alice  looked  pale  and 
ate  nothing. 

'  When  the  Dean  was  leaving,  he  said 
to  me  kindly,  "  I  hope,  Geake,  our  com- 
ing has  n't  been  too  much  for  your  wife. 
She 's  a  sweet  creature  and  you  must 
take  care  of  her.  I  'm  afraid  she  is  n't 
over-strong." 

'  For  the  first  time  a  vague  terror 
seized  me.  What  had  the  Dean  meant? 
I  remembered  the  kindly  anxiety  in  his 
eyes,  the  warm  pressure  of  his  hand ; 
had  he  meant  to  sympathise  with  me 
because  he  had  perceived  what  I  had 
not  —  a  shadow  of  doom  that  was  steal- 
ing over  my  life? 

4  As  soon  as  all  the  guests  had  left,  I 
rushed  upstairs  to  find  Alice.  I  opened 
the  bedroom  door  softly,  and  found  her 
fast  asleep  in  a  low  chair  before  the  fire. 
Yes,    she    was    much    changed  —  there 

73 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

could  be  no  doubt  of  it.  She  looked  like 
a  sleeping  flower,  —  a  flower  beaten 
down  by  the  wind.  There  was  an  excess 
in  her  languor  which  smote  the  heart  — 
her  whole  attitude  bespoke  extreme  ex- 
haustion. But,  as  usual,  my  harder 
mood  prevailed  over  my  tenderer.  I 
said  to  myself,  "  There  's  nothing  much 
the  matter.  She  's  only  tired.  She  '11 
be  all  right  to-morrow."  Had  I  but 
known  it,  the  shadow  of  death  was 
already  falling  on  her. 

'  That  night  the  blow  which  every  one 
but  myself  had  feared,  fell.  The  baby 
was  born  dead. 

'  In  the  grey  light  of  the  November 
morning  I  stood  beside  her,  listening  to 
her  last  words.  On  the  little  table 
beside  the  bed  lay  her  worn  purse,  and 
her  small  account  book.  She  had  put 
them  there,  expecting  to  go  on  with  her 
patient  household  management  as  usual 
during  her  illness.  She  made  an  effort 
to  smile  brightly  when  I  entered  the 
room  —  it  was  like  the  last  touch  of  wan 
sunlight  before  the  night  falls. 

74 


The  Tired  Wife 

* "  I  have  no  pain,"  she  whispered. 
"  I  'm  only  tired  —  so  tired.  I  've  felt 
tired  for  ever  so  long. 

'  "  Stoop  down.  I  want  to  say  some- 
thing, dear.  Do  you  really  love  me? 
Because  ...  I  've  thought  .  .  .  some- 
times that  you  did  n't." 

'  And  then  that  obstinate  valve  in  the 
heart  was  wrenched  open  once  more.  I 
was  trembling  with  the  flood  of  love  that 
swept  through  me.  I  drew  her  dear 
head  to  my  shoulder,  my  tears  fell  upon 
her  closed  eyelids.  Closed?  —  yes,  and 
for  ever.  My  tenderness  had  come  too 
late. 

'  It  all  happened  thirty  years  ago,  but 
time  makes  no  difference  to  sorrows  like 
this.  They  are  fools  who  talk  of  time 
healing  grief.  Grief  like  mine  is  past 
healing.  Time  widens  some  wounds 
instead  of  closing  them. 

'  I  have  never  wept  since  the  day  she 
died.  But  I  've  grown  harder,  always 
harder.  I  don't  know  why  I  've  spoken 
now  —  I  suppose  it 's  only  because  I  am 
lonely,  lying  here  knowing  that  no  one 

75 


Thro'    Lattice-Windows 

loves  me,  and  remembering  that  I  was 
loved  once.  I  am  a  very  miserable  old 
man.  O,  Mr.  Reckitt,  if  ever  you  love  a 
woman,  don't  grudge  her  tenderness  ; 
men  may  live  without  it,  but  women 
cannot.' 

'  O,  Mr.  Geake,'  said  Reckitt  in  a  chok- 
ing voice,  '  there  is  forgiveness  of  sins. 
God  pities  you,  because  He  understands 
you.' 

But  the  old  man  made  no  answer.  He 
lay  with  his  face  to  the  wall,  and  his 
hand  over  his  eyes. 

Presently  he  said  in  his  habitual  voice, 
'  I  think  it 's  a  little  warmer.  There  's 
going  to  be  a  thaw.  I  shall  be  well 
again  in  a  day  or  two,  and  you  must 
forget  that  you  ever  came  to  visit  me.' 


76 


V 

THE  MAN  FROM  LONDON 

ONCE  a  year  there  was  always  a 
crowd  at  the  old  Meeting-house 
in  Barford,  for  on  that  day  Plumridge 
Green  added  its  forces  to  the  Barford 
congregation.  The  occasion  was  a  great 
one.  It  was  to  hear  a  man  from  Lon- 
don. It  was  well  within  the  bounds  of 
possibility  that  quite  as  good  a  man 
might  have  been  found  in  Belchester, 
but  this  was  a  hypothesis  which  at  that 
time  no  one  had  ever  ventured  to  dis- 
cuss. Even  to  have  suggested  it  would 
have  roused  scorn  and  contempt,  and 
he  who  so  dared  would  have  instantly 
earned  the  reputation  of  a  cantankerous 
fellow  who  had  set  himself  against  the 
traditions  of  the  elders.  On  this  point 
Barford  stood  firm.  The  man  who 
preached  the  annual  sermon  must  come 
from    London.     It  did  n't  matter  much 

77 


Thro'    Lattice-Windows 

who  he  was ;  but  come  from  London 
he  must. 

It  was  not  that  Barford  always  found 
unqualified  pleasure  in  the  sermon.  On 
the  contrary,  it  was  very  freely  criticised 
when  the  man  from  London  had  de- 
parted, and  Davy  Lumsden  rarely  failed 
to  explain  that  its  imperfections  were 
numerous  and  startling.  But  even  Davy, 
when  the  committee  met  to  select  the 
next  year's  preacher,  was  as  strong  as 
anybody  else  on  this  primary  qualifica- 
tion, that  he  must  come  from  London. 

In  the  days  before  Mr.  Shannon  had 
entirely  gauged  the  peculiarities  of  his 
people,  he  had  once  inadvertently  sug- 
gested that  they  might  try  Bunting  of 
Belchester,  whose  local  reputation  had 
been  of  a  soberly  meteoric  kind.  But 
the  discussion  which  ensued  soon  opened 
his  blind  eyes  to  the  depth  of  his  error. 

Davy  undertook  to  explain  the  situa- 
tion, and  he  did  so  in  a  single  sentence. 
The  sentence  was  this  :  '  But  what  about 
the  bills?' 

'Well,  what  about  them?  '  retorted  the 
78 


The   Man  from   London 

minister,  who  in  those  early  days  still 
cultivated  a  tendency  to  strict  logic, 
which  he  had  not  yet  learned  was  a 
form  of  mental  activity  better  suited  to 
colleges  than  committees. 

'  Why,  you  can't  say  "  Bunting  of 
Lonnun,"  can  you?'  said  Davy. 

'  Certainly  not,'  said  the  minister. 

'  Though  I  've  know'd  such  things 
done.  The  St.  Colam  folk  did  it  once. 
They  got  a  man  from  up  Southminster 
way,  to  save  expense,  and  put  after  his 
name,  "  From  Lonnun."  They  thought 
as  no  one  'ud  know  no  better,  but  they 
did.  They  know'd  as  he  did  n't  come 
in  by  the  Lonnun  train,  and  they  saw 
as  there  warn't  no  Lonnun  label  on  his 
portmanny.  An'  they  would  n't  go  to 
hear  'un  ' 

'  I  don  't  understand  what  that  has  to 
do  with  the  question,'  said  Mr.  Shannon 
stiffly. 

'  Well,  it 's  like  this,'  continued  Davy  se- 
renely. '  It 's  Lonnun  as  does  it.  'Tain't 
the  man,  it 's  Lonnun.  The  biggest  fool 
from  Lonnun  is  more  good  to  we  than 

79 


Thro'    Lattice-Windows 

the  wisest  man  from  Belchester.  Folks 
do  look  at  they  bills,  particerlar  they 
Church  folk,  an'  say,  "  Well,  we  '11  go 
to  hear  he,  because  he  be  from  Lonnun." 
'T  aint  so  much  like  encouragin'  Dissent 
somehow,  as  it  'ud  be  if  the  man  come 
from  Belchester.  An'  what  I  want  to 
know  is,  "what  about  the  bills?  "  How 
'ud  they  kind  o'  strike  the  public  mind, 
so  to  speak,  if  there  warn't  no  word 
about  Lonnun  on  'em?  ' 

This  was  a  point  of  view  not  to  be 
gainsaid.  Mr.  Shannon  remembered 
that  when  he  had  preached  for  the  first 
time  at  Barford,  as  a  candidate,  he  had 
been  announced  as  '  from  London,'  and 
the  type  in  which  London  was  printed 
was  much  larger  than  the  type  which 
announced  his  own  humble  name  to  the 
public.  For  the  first  time,  he  caught  a 
glimpse  of  the  main  reason  of  his  suc- 
cess, and  it  amused  and  mollified  him. 

So  it  was  henceforth  a  settled  prin- 
ciple that  the  annual  preacher  should  be 
metropolitan.  Johnny  Button  did  indeed 
suggest  that  'from  near  London'  would 

80 


The   Man   from   London 

look  quite  as  well  on  the  bills,  and,  as 
that  was  an  elastic  term,  a  great  deal 
might  be  done  to  widen  the  field  of 
choice.  Every  one  knew  that  this  was 
merely  a  sly  dig  at  Davy,  who  would 
have  done  almost  anything  to  save 
expense.  But  Davy,  whose  financial  ge- 
nius always  shone  supreme  on  commit- 
tees, found  no  difficulty  in  proving  that 
what  you  saved  upon  the  railway  fare 
you  would  infallibly  lose  in  the  collec- 
tion. Besides  which,  it  would  lay  you 
open  to  the  insinuation  on  the  part  of 
the  Church  folk  that  Dissent  no  longer 
had  in  London  any  preachers  worthy  of 
a  Barford  anniversary;  to  say  nothing 
of  the  more  painful  contingency  that 
Barford  might  follow  the  example  of  the 
St.  Colam  folk,  and  '  refuse  to  hear  'un.' 
On  the  April  morning  when  the  man 
from  London  was  expected,  there  was 
usually  a  great  stir  of  quiet  expectation 
in  the  air.  Mumsley,  the  grocer,  always 
met  him  at  the  station,  for  Mumsley  was 
the  only  man  who  had  a  pony-cart,  and 
in  the  calculation  of  travelling  expenses 
6  81 


Thro'   Lattice- Windows 

the  sixpence  charged  by  the  'White 
Lion  '  'bus  was  not  included.  Besides 
which,  this  was  the  chief  adventure  of 
the  year  for  Mumsley,  who  was  a  man 
of  such  strong  clerical  proclivities  that 
he  never  appeared  in  public  without  a 
white  tie,  and  a  coat  which  had  an  ob- 
vious cousinly  relationship  to  the  ortho- 
dox clerical  garment.  It  was  well  known 
that  Mumsley  never  went  to  the  station 
to  look  after  a  barrel  of  sugar  without 
arraying  himself  in  semi-priestly  raiment, 
and  his  proudest  memory  was  that  once, 
when  travelling  by  error  in  a  second- 
class  carriage  on  the  other  side  of  Bel- 
chester,  he  had  been  mistaken  for  the 
incumbent  of  a  neighbouring  village. 
The  man  from  London  never  failed  to 
single  him  out  at  once  as  the  person  sent 
to  meet  him.  But  if  he  had,  there  could 
have  been  no  corresponding  error  on 
Mumsley's  part.  Thirty  years'  practice 
in  the  art  had  long  ago  taught  him  pre- 
cisely the  sort  of  shiny  black  leather  bag 
which  might  be  confidently  suspected  of 
containing  a  sermon,  a  night-shirt,  and 

82 


The   Man  from   London 

a  pair  of  faded  wool  slippers,  worked 
long  ago  by  the  ladies  of  an  admiring 
congregation.  Mumsley  was  so  per- 
fectly fitted  by  nature  and  by  training 
for  the  duty  of  producing  a  good  im- 
pression on  the  man  from  London,  that 
no  one  would  have  thought  of  super- 
seding him,  and  even  Mr.  Shannon,  who 
was  slow  to  learn  the  Barford  niceties  of 
etiquette,  felt  that  it  would  look  like  an 
injustice  to  Mumsley  had  he  offered  to 
accompany  him  to  the  station. 

But  it  was  in  the  quiet  manse  up  the 
Meeting-house  yard  that  the  full  force 
of  this  annual  excitement  was  felt.  This 
was  the  true  cyclonic  centre. 

For  a  week  before  the  man  from  Lon- 
don came  there  was  a  turning-out  of  the 
house,  so  diligent,  and  so  destructive  of 
tranquillity,  that  poor  Mr.  Shannon  used 
to  say  that  he  was  hunted  from  room  to 
room  like  a  partridge  on  the  mountains. 
For  this  week  the  will  of  Mrs.  Shannon 
was  supreme.  There  was  no  exemption 
even  for  the  study.  Papers  were  bun- 
dled   indiscriminately     into    the    wrong 

8x 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

drawers,  books  were  thrust  into  the 
handiest  places  on  the  shelves,  in  direct 
defiance  of  their  natural  affinities,  and 
sermons  were  so  cleverly  concealed  that 
it  was  months  afterwards  before  their 
whereabouts  were  discovered.  Floors 
were  scrubbed,  linen  was  mended,  laven- 
der was  put  into  the  best  bed,  windows 
were  polished  till  they  shone  again. 
It  was  a  standing  remark  in  Barford 
that  Mr.  Shannon  was  sure  to  visit  his 
flock  in  April,  if  he  did  so  at  no  other 
time. 

The  night  before  the  anniversary  Mr. 
Shannon  was  invited  to  inspect  his  re- 
garnished  house,  and  was  expected  to 
express  delight  in  the  same. 

'  I  'm  sure  it  looks  beautiful,'  Mrs. 
Shannon  would  say,  as  she  stood  with 
tired  hands  meekly  folded. 

'  But  is  n't  it  just  a  little  cold  without 
a  fire,  dear?  ' 

'Oh,  how  can  you  say  so,  John? 
I  'm  sure  it's  quite  a  warm  night.  And 
besides,  you  know  we  really  can't  have 
a  fire  lit  till  to-morrow.     Fires  make  so 

84 


The   Man   from   London 

much  dust  that  I  should  have  all  my 
work  to  do  over  again.' 

This  was  conclusive,  and  the  minister, 
whose  blood  had  not  been  warmed  by  a 
week's  scrubbing  of  floors,  shivered  in 
silence. 

'  Come  and  see  the  study,  dear.  You 
would  n't  know  it,  it  looks  so  tidy.' 

It  did  look  tidy ;  there  was  no  doubt 
of  it.  A  perfectly  clean  piece  of  blot- 
ting paper  lay  upon  the  desk,  and  a  per- 
fectly clean  pen  lay  beside  it.  There 
was  an  odour  of  borax  in  the  air. 

'But  I  don't  see  my  pipe,  Susan.' 

'Oh,  it's  in  the  cupboard.  It  looks 
so  bad  for  a  stranger  to  see  pipes  lying 
about.  He  might  suppose  you  were 
always  smoking.' 

'  Is  it  a  new  carpet  you  've  got, 
dear? ' 

This  was  an  annual  remark  which  he 
was  expected  to  make ;  it  was  of  the 
nature  of  a  delicate  compliment. 

'Why,  no,  dear.  It's  only  turned. 
The  part  with  the  hole  in  it,  that  used 
to  be  under  the  window,  is  under  your 

35 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

desk,  where  no  one  can  see  it.  It's  a 
great  improvement,  is  n't  it?  ' 

This  was  a  proposition  to  which  he 
could  yield  sincere  agreement.  But  he 
had  different  views  concerning  the  posi- 
tion of  the  desk. 

'  I  don't  like  the  desk  in  that  corner, 
dear.  There 's  no  light  there,  and  I 
shan't  be  able  to  write  at  it.' 

'  Yes,  but  you  see,  John,  I  could  n't 
help  that.  That 's  the  place  where  the 
hole  was,  you  know.' 

A  similar  revolution  had  been  effected 
in  each  room,  but  the  controlling  prin- 
ciple in  every  case  appeared  to  be  the 
exigencies  of  the  carpet.  It  was  mani- 
fest that  wherever  the  carpet  was  shabby 
something  must  be  put  over  it.  Thus 
it  happened  that  the  couch  in  the  draw- 
ing-room now  stood  immediately  under 
the  central  plaster  bulb  that  adorned  the 
ceiling.  There  had  been  some  paraffin 
oil  spilt  at  this  particular  spot  during  the 
early  part  of  the  year.  But,  as  Mrs. 
Shannon  explained,  it  was  quite  custom- 
ary nowadays  to  put  the  couch   in  the 

86 


The   Man  from   London 

centre  of  the  room,  instead  of  against  the 
wall.  Of  course  the  Splashetts  did  n't 
do  it,  but  then  Mrs.  Trevarton  did  ;  and 
as  Mrs.  Trevarton  had  an  aunt  living  in 
London,  no  doubt  she  imported  her 
notions  direct  from  the  latest  fashions 
of  the  metropolis. 

'  I  expect  the  minister's  room  is  ar- 
ranged that  way  in  London,'  she  con- 
cluded. '  It  will  be  nice  for  him  to  see 
that  we  know  how  to  do  things  properly 
in  the  country.' 

In  the  course  of  the  evening  the 
Splashetts  and  Mrs.  Trevarton  called. 
They  always  did  so,  for  a  reason  which 
was  very  well  understood  but  never  ex- 
pressed. They  wished  to  see  for  them- 
selves that  the  manse  was  in  proper 
order.  They  felt  that  it  was  of  the  high- 
est importance  that  the  reputation  of 
Barford  should  not  suffer  in  the  eyes  of 
the  man  from  London.  Mrs.  Trevarton 
was  a  little  scornful  in  her  survey,  being 
conscious  that  her  own  drawing-room 
was  vastly  superior,  and  that  by  rights 
the  man  from  London  should  have  been 

§7 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

her  guest.  Dorcas  Splashett  contented 
herself  with  running  her  finger  along  the 
window-ledge,  to  discover  any  dust  that 
might  have  lurked  there  unsuspected. 
She  also  viewed  the  position  of  the 
couch  with  cold  disfavour.  She  had  long 
ago  observed  the  stain  in  the  carpet,  and 
was  well  enough  aware  of  the  reason 
why  the  couch  had  been  torn  from  its 
natural  environment  against  the  wall. 

'  It 's  all  very  well,'  she  observed  to 
Priscilla,  as  they  went  home.  '  But  it 's 
a  new-fangled  way  I  don't  like.  Besides, 
when  any  one  sits  upon  it,  it 's  ten 
chances  to  one  that  it  '11  get  pushed 
back,  and  then  every  one  '11  see  why  it 
was  put  there.  I  'd  rather  be  honest 
any  day  than  be  found  out  like  that. 
You  may  depend  upon  it  Mrs.  Shan- 
non '11  be  in  a  fever  all  day  for  fear  some 
one  '11  push  that  couch  back.' 

Mrs.  Trevarton,  whose  discernment 
did  not  carry  her  so  far,  simply  sniffed 
at  the  arrangement,  seeing  in  it  a  fee- 
ble attempt  to  copy  her  own  superior 
methods. 

88 


The   Man  from   London 

'  It  looks  well  enough  when  the  couch 
is  a  good  one,'  she  said  to  her  husband 
that  night ;  '  but  when  it 's  only  a  poor 
old  rep  thing  like  that,  it 's  simply  expos- 
ing its  shabbiness.  Besides,  I  know  that 
one  of  its  legs  is  weak,  for  I  sat  on  it  to 
find  out.  It  never  ought  to  be  sat  on, 
an'  if  it  was  mine  I  'd  push  it  out  of  the 
way  where  no  one  'ud  think  o'  sitting 
on  it.' 

The  approach  of  the  man  from  Lon- 
don was  heralded  in  a  variety  of  ways. 

When  Mumsley's  pony-cart  appeared 
in  the  street  about  noon,  it  was  generally 
understood  that  certain  intelligence  had 
been  received  that  the  man  from  London 
was  really  on  his  way.  The  train  was 
not  due  at  the  junction  till  half-past  one, 
and  Mumsley's  pony  was  capable  of 
covering  the  distance  in  a  quarter  of  an 
hour.  But  Mumsley  was  a  man  who 
knew  the  art  of  getting  the  most  out  of 
his  sensations,  and  liked  to  approach 
the  crisis  of  the  year  by  deliberate 
stages.  He  also  knew  what  was  ex- 
pected   of  him.      There   was    always   a 

S9 


Thro'   Lattice- Windows 

more  or  less  acute  suspicion  in  some 
minds  that  the  man  from  London  might 
not  come  after  all.  It  was  not  until 
the  pony-cart  was  wheeled  out  into  the 
street  that  this  suspicion  was  felt  to  be 
unfounded. 

The  pony  followed  the  cart  at  about 
the  space  of  half  an  hour.  The  animal 
was  ostentatiously  put  into  the  shafts, 
in  the  full  observation  of  the  street. 
When  all  was  complete,  one  and  an- 
other would  stroll  up  to  the  cart,  and 
address  Mumsley  with  a  false  air  of 
nonchalance. 

'  He  's  comin',  then?  ' 

'  Ay,  ay.  He  '11  just  be  gettin'  near 
Belchester.' 

'  Do  'ee  know  what  he  's  like?  ' 

'  No,  this  is  a  new  'un.  A  young  man, 
as  I  'm  told,  but  amazin'  clever.  They 
Belchester  people  '11  be  rare  an'  mad  if 
they  should  see  him  a-comin'  through 
the  station,  an'  think  as  they  might  ha' 
had  him,  if  they  'd  been  sharp  enough 
to  speak  for  him  sooner.' 

4  Well,  they  can't  get  him  to  stop  now. 
9° 


The   Man  from   London 

They  '11  hev'  to  come  to  Barford  if  they 
want  to  hear  'im.' 

'  That 's  so,  sonny,'  Mumsley  would 
conclude  complacently,  as  he  pulled  on 
his  black  kid  gloves.  On  ordinary  oc- 
casions he  wore  common  tan  driving 
gloves,  but  when  he  met  the  man  from 
London  he  always  wore  the  pair  which 
he  reserved  for  funerals. 

At  regular  distances  along  the  road 
to  the  station,  children  stationed  them- 
selves, and  certain  grown  people,  who 
might  have  been  supposed  to  have  some- 
thing better  to  do,  strangely  discovered 
that  it  was  as  near  to  go  home  to  dinner 
by  the  station  road  as  any  other,  which 
was  manifestly  absurd  to  a  mathematical 

mind. 

Observations  would  be  shouted  up  the 

road  in  shrill  voices. 

'  I  've  seed  the  smoke  of  her.' 

'  I  can  hear  her  a-rumbling.' 

'She's    in    the    tunnel.     There's   the 

whistle.     She's   stopped  now.' 

After  this,  expectant  silence  fell  upon 

the  scene.     It  was  not  until  the  distant 

91 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

grind  of  wheels  on  the  gravelly  road  dis- 
turbed the  stillness,  that  speech  broke 
out  again. 

'  I  can  see  'im.' 

'  He  's  a-comin'.' 

'  Here  he  be,  sure  enough.' 

There  was  a  rush  of  feet  up  the  lane, 
and  one  by  one  each  little  sentinel  de- 
serted his  post,  to  join  the  throng  that 
ran    behind   Mumsley's   pony-cart.     As 
the  cart  rattled  over  the  bridge  the  escort 
grew,  till  it  was  a  triumphant  procession 
in    miniature.     In   the    cart  sat   a    pale 
young  man,  with  a  shiny  black  leather 
bag  upon  his  knees.     It  was  a  solemn 
moment  when  the  cart  drew  up  at  the 
broad   brick  gateway    that    led    to    the 
manse    and    Meeting-house.     It    is    im- 
possible to  judge  accurately  what  a  man 
is  like  by  merely  seeing  him  in  a  pony- 
cart.     It    is  not  until  he  stands   bodily 
on  the  pavement  that  you  can  really  be 
assured  that    his    legs  are   spindly,   and 
that  his  boots  are  town  made  and  quite 
new. 

Inside  the  manse  the   dinner  was  al- 
92 


The  Man  from   London 

ready  waiting,  for  the  service  began  in 
three  quarters  of  an  hour.  The  pale 
young  man  was  led  triumphantly  to  the 
room  prepared  for  him,  which  he  thought 
rather  small  and  bare.  The  sweet  scent 
of  lavender  was  entirely  wasted  on  him. 
He  did  not  observe  it,  and  did  not  know 
what  it  was.  It  is  a  long  time  since 
lavender  grew  in  Hoxton  and  Hackney. 
At  the  foot  of  the  stair  stood  Mrs. 
Trevarton's  servant,  who  had  been  bor- 
rowed for  the  day,  holding  in  her  hands 
a  dish  of  potatoes  carefully  covered  with 
a  napkin,  and  ready  to  plump  it  on  the 
table  at  the  least  sign  of  the  young  man's 
step  upon  the  landing.  It  was  a  great 
disappointment  to  Mrs.  Shannon  to  find 
that  when  the  young  man  came  down  he 
declined  her  best  dishes.  He  explained 
that  he  never  ate  before  preaching. 
When  she  innocently  rerfiarked  that  Mr. 
Shannon  never  preached  so  well  as  after 
a  full  meal,  he  smiled  sadly,  as  if  in 
gentle  deprecation  of  a  pleasant  form  of 
barbarism,  from  which  he  was  long  ago 
emancipated.     That   smile   was    so    dis- 

93 


Thro'   Lattice- Windows 

concerting  that  it  quite  spoiled  the  meal. 
But  after  all  you  cannot  expect  the 
sermons  of  a  man  from  London  to  be 
produced  by  the  same  methods  as  the 
quite  ordinary  sermons  of  so  ordinary  a 
man  as  Mr.  Shannon.  On  reflecting 
over  the  matter  afterwards,  Mrs.  Shannon 
felt  sad  to  think  she  had  been  so  want- 
ing in  tact  as  to  make  such  a  suggestion. 

I  think  it  was  this  pale  young  man 
who  finally  destroyed  the  tradition  that 
only  a  man  from  London  was  equal  to 
the  honours  of  a  Barford  anniversary. 
He  preached  so  learned  a  discourse  on 
the  perils  of  science  that  Davy  Lumsden, 
whose  mind  was  supposed  to  be  equal 
to  the  most  abstruse  problems,  grunted 
quite  offensively,  and  at  last  fell  into  an 
ostentatious  sleep. 

There  were  some  people,  of  course, 
who  thought  it  very  fine,  on  the  principle 
that  the  less  you  understand  of  a  thing, 
the  more  wonderful  it  may  be  supposed 
to  be.  But  when  the  committee  met 
next  year,  old  Mr.  Potterbee  summed 
up    the  general    feeling  when  he  said : 

94 


The   Man   from    London 

'  It 's  Christ  we  want  to  hear  about,  for 
if  a  preacher  does  n't  bring  Christ  nearer 
to  us  when  he  preaches,  what 's  the  use 
of  preaching?  ' 

'  Yes,'  said  Davy  Lumsden, '  London  's 
getting  too  fine  for  we.  After  all,  I  like 
a  man  to  talk  our  sort  o'  talk,  howiver 
clever  he  may  be.' 

Since  that  discussion  Barford  has 
been  content  to  go  to  Belchester  for  its 
annual  preacher;  though,  as  Mumsley 
says,  '  he  can't  never  feel  the  same  about 
meetin*  a  man  from  Belchester  as  he 
would  a  man  from  London.' 

The  black  kid  gloves  are  never  worn 
now.  Common  tan  are  manifestly  good 
enough  for  a  man  from  Belchester. 


VI 

A  LOST  IDYLL 

ONCE  a  year  Priscilla  Splashett 
suffered  from  a  curious  trouble, 
for  which  medicine  had  no  remedy.  It 
always  came  upon  her  in  the  spring, 
with  the  song  of  the  thrush  and  the 
flowering  of  the  hawthorn. 

In  a  general  way  the  course  of  life  at 
the  Red  House  was  serene  almost  to  the 
point  of  deadness.  There  never  was  a 
house  where  the  order  was  more  perfect. 
The  most  jealous  eye  could  not  discern 
the  least  speck  of  dust  upon  the  furniture  ; 
every  chair  had  stood  in  the  same  place 
for  forty  years,  and  might  have  been  ima- 
gined a  sort  of  permanent  excrescence  of 
the  floor.  The  meals  were  served  to  the 
fraction  of  a  minute,  and  their  character 
never  varied.  If  all  the  clocks  in  Bar- 
ford    had    suddenly   stopped,   the  town 

96 


A  Lost  Idyll 

might  have  learned  the  time  of  day  from 
observation  of  Dorcas  Splashett,  as  mari- 
ners, take  the  time  by  observation  of  the 
sun.     Housewives,  who  were  not  afflicted 
with    any  vivid    fear  of  dust,    naturally 
felt  the  immaculate  tidiness  of  the  Red 
House  to  be  something  of  a  reproach, 
and  occasionally  made  spiteful  remarks 
upon  the  subject.     They  found  a  pleas- 
ure in  spreading  the  report,  that  after  a 
caller  left  the  Red  House  the  mat  at  the 
door  was  carefully  shaken,  and  the  chair 
which  had  been  used  was  freshly    pol- 
ished.      Mrs.    Trevarton,    the     lawyer's 
wife,  even  went  so  far  as  to  affirm  that 
the  Splashetts'  cat  had  her  feet  washed 
every   night,  and   had   been  seen  going 
about  in  a  pair   of  wool  socks,  similar 
to  a  baby's,  after  the  operation,  in  order 
to  avoid  the  least  peril  of  footmarks  on 
the   oilcloth.     But  Mrs.  Trevarton   was 
not  eminent  for  truth,  and  people  who 
had  seen  her  house  did  not  need  to  be 
told  why  she  said  ill-natured  things  about 
the  Splashetts. 

The  first  symptom  that  anything  was 
7  97 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

wrong  with  Priscilla  Splashett  was  that 
some  fine  spring  morning  she  would  be 
late  for  breakfast.  Dorcas  would  look 
at  her  grimly  from  behind  the  tea-urn 
and  say : 

'  Priscilla,  I  wonder  at  you.' 

'  I  'm  sorry,  Dorcas,  but  I  ain't  quite 
well' 

'  Have  you  took  your  pills  reg'lar, 
Priscilla?  ' 

'  It  ain't  pills.  I  think  I  want  a 
change.' 

'  Fiddlesticks  !  A  change,  indeed  ! 
Why  don't  you  take  a  walk  oftener?' 

'  I  'm  sure  I  've  walked  every  day, 
Dorcas,'  she  would  answer  meekly. 
'  I  've  walked  till  I  'm  tired,  an'  always 
along  the  same  ways.  One  gets  tired 
always  walking  the  same  ways.  It  gets 
kind  of  dull.  I  want  to  go  away  some- 
wheres.' 

Then  she  would  shake  her  grey  head 
dolefully,  and  the  tears  would  come  into 
her  soft  blue  eyes.  She  had  always 
been  afraid  of  her  sister  since  the  days 
when  Dorcas  used  to  play  at  giving  her 

9S 


A  Lost  Idyll 

medicine,  and  insist  upon  her  swallow- 
ing it,  and  going  to  bed  in  the  middle 
of  the  afternoon,  when  she  wanted  to 
amuse  herself  in  the  garden.  She  had 
a  timid  sense  that  Dorcas  was  capable 
of  slapping  her  still.  For  Dorcas  was 
tall  and  angular,  and  never  ailed  any- 
thing ;  while  Priscilla  was  delicately 
petite,  with  the  soft  curves  of  a  child, 
and  the  faded  pink  of  childhood  still 
visible  on  her  cheeks. 

'It's  all  sinful  discontent,  Priscilla,' 
Dorcas  would  retort  severely.  '  You  're 
old  enough  to  know  better,  one  would 
think.  I  suppose  you  want  to  go 
gadding  off  to  Belchester  again  to  your 
friend  Ann  Hobbs ;  though  what  you 
can  see  in  Belchester,  a  nasty,  stuffy, 
smoky  place,  /  can't  tell.  An'  Ann 
Hobbs  always  was  a  slut,  though  she 
has  married  better  than  might  have 
been  supposed,  an'  there  's  never  a 
place  in  her  house  where  any  one  can 
sit  down  in  peace,  an'  I  'd  be  sorry 
enough  to  eat  anything  of  her  cook- 
ing.    But  I  reckon  you  '11   have  to  go. 

99 


Thro'    Lattice-Windows 

There  's  no  living  with  you,  when  you  're 
took  with  this  sort  of  fit,  until  you  've 
got  your  way.' 

'  Don't  be  angry,  Dorcas.  There 's 
only  the  two   of  us  left,  you  know.' 

'  I  'm  not  angry,  child.  Only  I  wish 
you  was  a  little  more  like  me.  I  've 
never  been  out  of  Barford  half  a  dozen 
times  in  my  life,  an'  I  'm  sure  I  don't 
want  to.  I  can't  abide  other  people's 
houses,  an'  I  wonder  how  you  can.' 

Priscilla  would  then  make  her  escape 
into  the  garden,  where  she  would  wan- 
der up  and  down  aimlessly,  and  had 
any  one  been  near  to  observe  her  he 
would  have  felt  a  suggestion  of  forlorn 
pathos  in  her  movements.  He  would 
have  seen  her,  for  example,  pluck  a 
spray  of  hawthorn  and  hold  it  to  her 
lips  with  an  air  of  guilty  secrecy;  and 
at  the  south  corner  of  the  garden,  where 
the  violets  grew,  she  would  stoop  and 
gather  a  handful,  and  thrust  them  into 
her  bosom,  weeping  quietly  the  while ; 
and  at  the  stile  where  the  path  crossed 
the  paddock,  she  would    sit  for  a  long 

IOO 


A  Lost  Idyll 

time  with  clasped  hands,  listening  to 
the  mounting  skylark.  And  all  the 
time  something  more  than  the  subtle 
passion  of  the  spring  worked  in  her 
blood,  which  was,  of  course,  what  no 
spectator  would  have  guessed  at;  for 
old  scenes  were  coming  back,  and  old, 
fond  words  thrilled  upon  the  air,  and 
old,  soft  hand-pressures  sent  a  warmth 
through  her  veins ;  for  this  was  the  stile 
where  John  Dartford  had  told  her  that 
he  loved  her  nearly  forty  years  before. 

The  last  time  Priscilla  took  this  yearly 
journey  to  Belchester  I  saw  her  start, 
and,  although  I  am  not  a  person  of  un- 
usual discernment,  I  felt  that  there  was 
something  curious  and  wonderful  in  the 
look  upon  her  face.  There  was  an  ele- 
ment so  sad  and  joyous  in  that  look, 
that  I  always  remembered  it;  the  eyes 
were  the  eyes  of  a  bride,  but  the  mouth, 
with  its  wistful  trembling,  was  the  mouth 
of  an  unhappy  child.  A  year  later  I  came 
across  this  Ann  Hobbs,  with  whom  Pris- 
cilla always  stayed  in  Belchester,  and  it 
was  from  her  lips  I  heard  Priscilla's  story. 

101 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

'Yes,'  said  Ann  Hobbs,  '  I  've  know'd 
her  ever  since  she  were  eighteen,  for  my 
father  had  a  farm  at  Barford,  and  it  be- 
longed to  the  Splashetts,  and  was  close 
to  their  house.  All  the  trouble  came 
with  that  there  John  Dartford,  though 
'eaven  forbid  as  I  should  speak  a  word 
agenst  him  as  were  a  good  master  to 
me.  I  was  nurse  in  his  house  for  nigh 
on  two  years  after  he  married,  but  of 
course  this  affair  of  the  Splashetts  came 
before  his  marriage. 

'  In  them  days  the  two  Miss  Splashetts 
were  as  real  beauties  as  you  could  wish 
to  see.  Dorcas,  she  were  always  tall, 
and  had  fine  eyes,  and  walked  proud ; 
but  Priscilla  —  Prissy,  as  we  'd  use  to 
call  her  —  were  the  sweetest  and  the 
prettiest.  John  Dartford,  he  were  a 
land-surveyor,  and  one  day  he  came  to 
Barford  on  some  business,  and  owing 
to  the  business  proving  more  contrairy 
than  was  expected,  it  happened  that  he 
stayed  about  six  weeks,  and  took  lodg- 
ings with  us  at  the  farm. 

'  I  could  see  how  it  was  to  be  from 
102 


A  Lost  Idyll 

the  first.     He  were  a  fine,  tall  man,  with 
big  brown  eyes,  an'  he  used  to  talk  free 
to  mother  at  nights  as  they  sat  beside 
the  fire  before  goin'  to  bed.     One  night 
it    happened    he   came  in   late,  and    his 
face  looked  white  and  drawed-up,  so  to 
speak.     He  did  n't  say  nothin',  but  after 
supper  he  went  out  sudden,  and  I  could 
see  by  the  way  he  went  that  he  were 
goin'  across  the  fields  towards  the  Red 
House.     It   were   lovely   spring   moon- 
light, and  from  my  bedroom  window  I 
watched    him   cross  the  bridge   by  the 
brook,  and  go  up  the  field  to  the  stile, 
where  I  could  see  some  one  all  in  white 
awaiting  for  him.     Now  we  had  been  told 
in  Barford  nigh  a  week  before  how  he 
were  going  to  marry  Dorcas  Splashett, 
an'   we  'd  thought  it  strange  he  had  n't 
said   nothing  to  we,  seeing  as  he   were 
so    free    in   his   speech  as  a  rule.     So, 
being  but  a  girl,  and  curious,  what  must 
I  do  but  slip  a  shawl  over  my  head  and 
go  round  by  another  path  through  the 
little  wood,  thinking  to  surprise  him  at 
the  stile,  and  see  whether  it  were  Dorcas 

103 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

he  had  gone  to  meet.  I  thought  it 
would  n't  be  like  Dorcas,  as  were  always 
so  proud,  to  meet  any  one  after  such  a 
fashion,  and  yet  I  know'd  I  'd  ha'  gone 
anywheres  to  meet  a  man  like  John 
Dartford,  if  I  loved  him,  an'  I  thought 
how  funny  it  would  be  to  see  Dorcas 
doin'  it.  I  went  through  the  wood, 
treading  tiptoe,  till  at  last  I  came  to 
the  gap  in  the  hedge  close  by  the  stile, 
and  there  stood  John  Dartford  sure 
enough,  but  I  could  see  at  once  that 
it  wasn't  Dorcas  as  was  wi'  him.  It 
were  Priscilla,  and  he  had  his  arm  round 
her,  and  she  had  her  head  on  his  shoul- 
der, an'  was  sobbing.  I  was  so  frighted 
that  I  slipped,  and  a  bough  broke  with  a 
crack  ;  but  bless  you,  they  did  n't  hear  it. 
They  would  n't  ha'  heard  jest  then,  not 
even  if  Gabriel  had  blew  his  trumpet 
right  over  their  heads. 

'"It's  been  all  a  mistake,"  I  heard 
him  say.  "  O  Priscilla,  darling,  what  a 
blessing  we've  found  it  out  in  time." 

'"But  it's  not  in  time.  It's  a  fort- 
night too  late,"  she  sobbed. 

104 


A   Lost  Idyll 

' "  It 's  not  too  late,"  he  answered 
almost  fiercely.  "  I  've  been  a  fool,  but 
I  'rri  wise  now.  It 's  you  I  love,  and  it 's 
you  I  shall  always  love.  I  can  see  it  all 
now  quite  plain.  It 's  you  I  loved  from 
the  first,  and  not  Dorcas." 

'  "  But  you  let  Dorcas  think  you  loved 
her,  and  that 's  what  makes  it  too  late. 
Oh,  it  breaks  my  heart  to  say  it,  but  it 
is  too  late,  for  ever  too  late." 

'  She  drew  herself  away  from  him, 
and  stood  there  wringing  her  hands  like 
a  ghost  in  the  moonshine. 

'  He  seemed  to  shiver,  as  if  some  one 
had  struck  him  a  sharp  blow,  and  then 
he  began  again,  speaking  low  and  delib- 
erate. 

'  "  How  can  it  be  too  late?  "  he  says. 
"  I  've  only  known  Dorcas  a  month,  and 
she  can't  love  me  all  that." 

' "  And  you  've  only  known  me  a 
month,  and  yet  I  shall  love  you  till  I 
die,"  says  she. 

'"Then  marry  me." 

'  "  I  can't,  indeed  I  can't.  I  couldn't 
steal  something  from  Dorcas,  even  if  I 

io5 


Thro'    Lattice-Windows 

wanted  it  ever  so.  I  could  n't  ever  be 
happy  if  I  'd  got  my  happiness  by  mak- 
ing some  one  else  miserable.  And  Dor- 
cas has  taken  care  of  me  ever  since 
mother  died,  ever  since  I  was  a  little 
girl." 

'  But  he  was  not  to  be  put  off  so  easily. 
He  argued  with  her,  and  kissed  her,  but 
it  always  came  back  to  that,  —  "  it  was 
too  late." 

'  "  If  you  did  n't  love  me  well  enough 
to  marry  me,  why  did  you  meet  me?" 
he  said  at  last.  She  felt  it  was  a  cruel 
speech,  and  it  was  her  turn  to  shiver 
now.  But  she  drew  herself  up,  and  "an- 
swered very  quietly : 

' "  Because  I  knew  it  was  the  only 
time,  —  the  last  time.  It  was  weak  of 
me,  I  know,  but  I  could  n't  help  it.  I 
told  myself  that  it  was  only  this  once. 
I  could  n't  grudge  myself  one  hour  of 
you,  one  little  hour.  .  .  .  Dorcas  can 
have  you  all  the  rest  of  your  life  now,  if 
she  likes." 

'"But  she  won't,"  he  said,  with  a 
groan.     "  Don't  think  you  are  helping 

106 


A  Lost  Idyll 

Dorcas  by  saying  no  to  me.  You  don't 
suppose  I  could  ever  marry  Dorcas  after 
what  we've  said  this  night,  do  you? 
It's  better  that  one  should  be  made 
miserable  than  two,  is  n't  it?  " 

'  "  Not  if  the  other  two  have  made  the 
one  miserable  by  stealing  her  happi- 
ness," she  answered,  sadly.  "  O  John, 
kiss  me,  kiss  me  once  more,  dear,  and 
let  me  go.  No  one  else  will  ever  touch 
these  lips.  I  '11  keep  them  pure  for  you 
till  we  meet  in  heaven,  John.  Perhaps 
things  will  come  right  there  .  .  .  will 
be  different.  .  .  ." 

'  He  broke  into  such  a  cry  at  those 
words  that  I  was  fairly  frighted,  for  I  'd 
never  seen  a  man  weep,  and  I  hurried 
away.  But  right  down  the  hill  I  heard 
that  cry,  and  all  night  long  it  seemed  to 
come  and  go  like  a  wind  at  the  window. 
'  The  next  day  John  Dartford  packed 
up  his  things  and  went  back  to  Belches- 
ter.  The  last  thing  he  did  was  to  walk 
over  the  meadow  to  the  stile,  where  I 
saw  him  standing,  as  if  waiting.  Of 
course    she    did  n't    come,    and    I  don't 

107 


Thro'    Lattice-Windows 

suppose  as  he  expected  she  would.  But 
she  'd  laid  a  little  bunch  of  may-blossom 
and  violets  on  the  stile  as  a  love  token. 
He  put  them  in  his  pocket,  knowing 
very  well  what  they  meant,  and  strode 
away  in  the  dusk. 

'  Well,  it  were  a  month  after  that,  nigh 
on  the  beginning  o'  June,  that  one  day 
Priscilla  came  over  to  the  farm,  and 
wanted  to  speak  with  me.  The  menfolk 
were  all  a-field,  and  it  happened  as  I 
were  alone  in  the  house.  She  looked 
rare  an'  bad,  poor  thing;  there  was  big 
black  rings  under  her  eyes,  an'  it  seemed 
as  though  the  tears  had  nigh  washed 
all  the  pinky  colour  out  o'  her  pretty 
cheeks,  like  the  rain  does  wi'  flowers. 
She  did  n't  say  much  at  first :  jest  looked 
about  her  sort  o'  frighted,  and  sat  in  the 
window-seat  and  sighed.  At  last  she 
said,  timid  like,  "  So  you  Ve  lost  your 
lodger,  have  you?" 

'  "  Mr.  Dartford,  you  might  be  mean- 
ing?" says  T. 

'  "  Yes,"  says  she.  "  An'  I  've  been 
thinkin',  Ann,  that  sometimes  when  we 

108 


A  Lost  Idyll 

have  n't  no  room  for  our  guests  at  the 
Red  House,  it  might  be  convenient 
if  you  could  let  us  have  a  bedroom 
here." 

'  I  knew  very  well  as  that  was  all 
make-believe.  There  never  had  been 
no  guests  at  the  Red  House,  and  never 
would  be  as  long  as  Dorcas  was  the 
mistress.  But  I  didn't  like  to  see  the 
poor  thing  so  put  to  it  to  say  what  she 
wanted,  so  I  said   it  for  her. 

'  "  Maybe,"  I  says,  "  you  'd  like  jest 
to  see  the  room  as  Mr.  Dartford  had?  " 

4  "  If  you  wouldn't  mind,"  she  says, 
with  a  little  flush  on  her  face. 

'  So  she  gets  up,  and  follers  me  wi'out 
a  word  up  the  stair  into  the  room  where 
he  'd  slept.  It  were  jest  as  he  left  it, 
and  the  window  stood  open,  and  the 
smell  o'  the  roses  was  being  blowed  in 
by  the  wind. 

'  She  looked  round  sort  of  dazed,  and 
said  over  and  over  agen,  "  So  this  was 
his  room,  was  it?"  Then  she  went  to 
the  window,  and  stood  there  with  her 
back  turned  to  me.     Sudden   she  cries, 

109 


Thro'   Lattice- Windows 

with  a  voice  like  a  startled  bird,  "Ann, 
come  here,  and  look  at  this  !  ' 

'  In  course  I  came,  but  at  first  I 
could  n't  see  what  she  meant.  She  had 
her  finger  on  the  glass  of  the  window, 
and  the  tears  were  dropping  slow  down 
her  face,  as  if  she  'd  forgotten  them.  I 
looked  where  her  finger  touched  the 
glass,  and  then  I  saw  what  she  meant. 
Some  one  had  written  on  the  window- 
pane  Priscilla,  and   she   had   seen   it. 

'There  must  have  been  something  in 
my  face  that  told  her  I  understood,  for 
all  at  once  she  put  her  arms  round  my 
neck,  and  began  to  tell  me  everything. 
She  'd  never  breathed  a  word  to  Dorcas, 
and  never  did. 

' "  O  Ann,"  she  says,  "  I  'm  sore 
tempted.  I  do  love  him  so,  an'  it 's 
hard  to  give  him  up.  I  would  n't  mind  if 
Dorcas  did  n't  love  him  too,  but  I  know 
now  that  she  does.  She  goes  about  the 
house  like  a  ghost,  and  never  says  a 
word.  She  does  n't  in  the  least  know 
what  made  him  give  her  up,  an'  I 
dare  n't  tell  her.     If  I  only  thought  she 

I  10 


A   Lost  Idyll 

did  n't  care,  I  'd  go  to  him  at  once ;  but 
she  does  care,  and  we  're  both  being 
killed  for  love  of  him." 

'  She  wept  and  talked  a  long  time. 
At  last  she  said,  "  Well,  it  has  to  be 
so.  I  '11  try  an'  make  things  happy  for 
Dorcas,  for  maybe  she  's  hurt  worse  than 
I  am.  It 's  not  so  hard  to  know  you 
love  some  one  as  loves  you,  even  if  you 
can't  have  him,  as  it  is  to  know  you  love 
some  one  who  doesn't  love  you,  is  it? 
I  should  like  to  have  something  that  was 
his  —  some  little  thing.  I  don't  think  as 
Dorcas  'ud  mind  that." 

'We  looked  round  the  room,  but 
there  was  nothing  of  John  Dartford's 
there  except  a  withered  bit  of  hawthorn 
in  a  pot  on  the  mantelpiece.  I  s'pose 
it  had  been  forgotten  when  the  room 
was  tidied  up.  So  she  took  that,  putting 
it  careful  into  her  bosom,  an'  went  away. 

'  After  a  while  she  got  her  colour  back, 
and  went  about  much  as  usual.  It  came 
to  be  understood  that  there  had  been 
something  between  Dorcas  Splashett  and 
John  Dartford,  but  people  soon   forgot 

in 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

to  talk  of  it.  They  took  it  for  granted 
after  a  time  that  the  Miss  Splashetts  had 
settled  to  be  old  maids,  an'  did  n't  wish 
no  other.  As  for  John  Dartford,  he 
were  never  seen  in  Barford  agen,  an' 
presently  we  heard  as  he  were  married. 

'  But  every  spring,  as  hawthorn-time 
came  round,  Priscilla  used  to  get  pale 
and  peaky,  and  grew  strange  in  her 
manner.  She  'd  sit  for  hours  on  the 
stile  as  if  waiting  for  some  one  as  did  n't 
come,  an'  she  could  n't  speak  to  you 
without  the  tears  coming  into  her  eyes. 

'  By  this  time  I  had  left  the  farm,  an' 
by  chance  was  nurse  in  John  Dartford's 
house  at  Belchester.  After  a  bit  I  mar- 
ried, and  settled  down  in  Belchester, 
and  had  almost  forgot  about  Priscilla, 
when  one  spring  day  the  door  opens 
and  in  she  walks.  She  looked  jest  as 
she  did  when  she  come  to  the  farm  that 
day,  and  my  heart  went  out  to  her,  an' 
all  the  more  because  I  was  married  to  a 
man  as  loved  me  dear.  I  had  n't  any 
need  to  ask  why  she  'd  come  —  least- 
ways I  did  n't  ask  her.     I  made  her  up 

112 


A  Lost  Idyll 

a  bed,  an'  took  it  for  granted  she'd  come 
to  stop  a  bit. 

'  The  next  day  she  says,  timid-like, 
"  Do  you  think  you  could  let  me  see 
him,  Ann?  Not  to  speak  to,  you  know 
—  jest  to  see  him  as  he  passes.  I  don't 
think  Dorcas  'ud  object  to  that." 

'  So  I  told  her  that  John  Dartford's 
office  was  about  a  hundred  yards  away, 
and  that  he  mostly  passed  my  window 
at  four  in  the  afternoon,  as  he  went 
home. 

'  "  That  will  do,"  she  said,  with  a  sad 
little  smile. 

'  At  three  o'clock  she  came  in  with  a 
bit  of  hawthorn  in  her  hand,  and  put  it 
in  a  pot  in  the  window.  Then  she  sat 
down  and  waited.  At  four  he  came 
down  the  street.  I  saw  her  face  flush, 
and  turned  away.  "  He  's  looking  older, 
and  he  does  n't  look  happy,"  was  all  she 
said. 

'  She  stayed  a  fortnight,  and  after  that 
she  came  back  every  year  at  the  same 
time.  I  've  heerd  o'  flowers  as  is  quite 
content  if  they  get  jest  a  blink  o'  sun- 

8  117 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

shine  once  a  day,  and  manage  to  thrive 
on  it ;  an'  it  were  the  same  wi'  her. 
She  'd  sit  and  wait  at  the  window  reg'lar 
for  her  bit  o'  sunshine.  Every  year  she 
come  for  more  years  than  I  care  to 
count,  more  'en  thirty  it  must  be  any- 
ways, till  she  were  an  old  woman.  She 
always  did  the  same  thing  —  put  her 
bit  o'  hawthorn  in  the  window  an'  waited. 
In  course  he  never  knew,  an'  it  were 
best  he  should  n't. 

'The  nighest  she  ever  came  to  him 
was  one  day  years  ago,  when  she  'd  met 
his  little  boy  out  in  the  street,  and  kissed 
him.  She  came  in  quite  flushed,  and 
told  me.  Then  she  began  to  weep 
quietly,  and  said,  "  Ah,  Ann,  it 's  terrible 
to  grow  old,  and  have  no  little  mouth  to 
call  you  mother."  She  seemed  hurt  be- 
cause the  child  had  been  surprised  at 
being  kissed  by  a  strange  lady  in  the 
street.  She  seemed  to  think  he  ought 
to  ha'  known  how  she  had  loved  his 
father. 

'  But  she  won't  come  any  more  now. 
That  time  as  you  saw  her  start  for  Bel- 

114 


A   Lost  Idyll 

Chester  were  the  last  time.  The  very  day 
as  she  come  John  Dartford  died  sudden. 
It  were  foolish  o'  me  not  to  tell  her,  but 
I  had  n't  the  heart  to.  So  I  let  her  put 
her  bit  o'  hawthorn  in  the  window  as 
usual,  and  sit  an'  watch.  I  'd  altogether 
forgot  that  the  funeral  might  pass  that 
way,  the  proper  way  to  the  cemetery 
from  Dartford's  house  being  quite  a  dif- 
ferent one.  But  it  chanced  they  took  a 
freak  to  carry  his  body  past  the  office 
where  he  'd  worked  so  many  years,  and 
so  the  funeral  came  down  our  street.  I 
heard  the  bell  a-tolling,  and  presently 
the  slow  grind  o'  wheels  along  the  road, 
and  before  I  could  drag  her  from  the 
window  the  funeral  were  in  sight. 

'  "  Who  's  that  they  're  berrying, 
Ann?  "  says  she. 

'  I  'd  ha'  given  worlds  to  hold  my 
tongue,  but  there  was  something  in  her 
face  as  made  me  tell  the  truth. 

*  "  It's  John  Dartford,"  says  I,  speak- 
ing soft. 

'I  thought  she  would  ha'  fainted,  or 
burst  out   crying,  but    she   did  n't.     In- 

"5 


Thro'   Lattice- Windows 

stead  o'  that  a  smile  came  on  her  face, 
and  she  laughed  a  strange,  happy  sort 
o'  laugh. 

'"John  Dartford 's  dead,"  says  she. 
"  Then  he  's  mine  at  last.  No  one  won't 
blame  me  for  loving  him  now,  for  it 's 
no  sin  to  love  the  dead.  I  don't  think 
Dorcas  will  object  to  that."  ' 


116 


VII 

THE    PARSIMONY    OF    MRS. 
SHANNON 

FRAIL  little  Mrs.  Shannon,  the  min- 
ister's wife,  had  always  been  a 
popular  figure  in  Barford,  but  there  was 
quite  a  new  sentiment  concerning  her 
after  her  son  Arthur  ran  away  to  sea. 
The  grocer  with  whom  she  dealt  put 
an  extra  half-ounce  in  her  weekly  quar- 
ter of  a  pound  of  tea,  and  the  fortnightly 
washerwoman  showed  a  reluctance  to 
charge  her  legitimate  day's  wage. 
These  were  little  matters,  but  they 
meant  much.  The  washerwoman  came 
nearest  to  their  exposition,  when  she 
dropped  in  to  see  Mrs.  Splown  one 
wet  spring  night  on  her  way  back  from 
the  manse,  and  said,  '  Poor  thing,  I  'm 
sorry  for  her,  I  am.  She  ain't  long 
for  this  world.     She   goes  about  like  a 

117 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

dazed  body,  she  do.     Grieving  for  that 
boy  o'  hern,  I  reckon.' 

1  All  the  same,'  said  Mrs.  Splown 
judicially,  '  I  don't  see  as  you  are  called 
on  to  work  for  nothin',  Sarah  Ann.' 

4  Bless  you,  I  don't  mind,'  said  Sarah 
Ann,  with  what  might  have  been  called 
a  blush,  had  her  rubicund  countenance 
permitted  any  margin  for  such  an  ex- 
travagance. '  I  ain't  one  o'  them  as 
looks  too  long  at  a  ha'penny.  Besides, 
I  believe  they  Shannons  is  poorer  than 
they  was.' 

'How's  that?'  asked  Mrs.  Splown, 
with  curiosity. 

'  Oh,  I  don't  know  for  certing.  But 
I  heard  some  o'  they  Meetin'ers  say 
that  Mrs.  Shannon  used  to  give  to 
everything  before  that  boy  o'  hern  ran 
away,  an'  now  she  don't  give  to 
nothin'.' 

This  was  true,  and  the  fact  had  been 
duly  commented  on  at  the  Meeting- 
house. The  Sunday  after  Arthur  ran 
away,  Mrs.  Shannon  was  in  the  big 
square  pew  as  usual,  but  when  the  col- 

118 


The  Parsimony  of  Mrs.   Shannon 

lection   was   taken    she    looked    at   the 
plate   in  a  confused  way,  and   dropped 
her  head.     She  sat  nervously  taking  off 
her   black    thread    gloves    and    pulling 
them    on    again,    and    then    looked    up 
with  a  foolish   smile,  which  was   belied 
by  the  glance  of  fear  and  agony  in  the 
eyes.     The  deacon  who  held  the  plate 
stood  quite  a  long  time  at  the  door  of 
her  pew,  not  knowing  what  to  make  of 
it.     For  twenty  years  he  had   held  the 
plate  to  this  frail  little  woman,  and  had 
never  been  refused.     It  was  as  though 
some  fundamental    law  of  the  universe 
had  gone  wrong   and  refused  to  work. 
A  great  deal  may  happen  in  a  minute  — 
hearts  have  broken  in  even   less  time: 
and    during   that    dreadful    minute   the 
lonely  woman  in  the  big  pew  seemed 
visibly    to    shrink    and    dwindle.       Her 
face,  which    at    first    had    flushed    pain- 
fully,   turned    to    pale    wax,    on   which 
every  line  and  wrinkle,  and  some  of  the 
blue  veins  knotted    round  the  temples, 
stood   out    with    the  distinctness    of  an 
etching.      Then    she    whispered  faintly, 

119 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

'  Not  to-day,'  and  the  deacon  turned 
away  with  wonder  written  on  his  brow. 
It  was  remarked  that  when  the  hymn 
was  sung  the  minister's  wife  did  not 
stand  up.  She  sat  in  the  same  crushed 
attitude  in  the  corner  of  the  big  pew. 

During  that  week  it  somehow  got 
about  that  when  Miss  Splashett  had 
called  at  the  manse  to  collect  the  usual 
subscription  for  a  certain  '  society,'  she 
had  been  refused,  to  her  painful  aston- 
ishment. She  gave  an  account  of  the 
matter  to  her  sister  the  same  afternoon, 
and  the  two  old  ladies,  as  they  sat  over 
their  tea,  discussed  the  question  from 
every  point  of  view. 

'  I  know  the  minister  is  n't  as  well  off 
as  he  was,'  she  said,  '  for  things  have 
gone  down  a  little  at  the  chapel  —  but 
I  never  knew  Mrs.  Shannon  refuse  to 
give  before.  She's  always  been  most 
generous  —  indeed  I  wonder  how  she's 
done  it.  But  all  at  once  to  decline 
giving  anything  —  it 's  most  strange, 
most  strange,  my  dear.' 

'  Did  n't  she  explain?  '  asked  Priscilla. 
1 20 


The  Parsimony  of  Mrs.   Shannon 

'Not  a  word.  Besides,  her  manner 
was  so  curious.  She  stammered,  and 
only  spoke  in  whispers.  Generally  she  's 
always  been  prepared  with  the  money, 
and  has  said,  with  a  smile,  "  You  see, 
I  've  not  forgotten.  I  knew  you  would 
come  to-day,  and  I  like  to  keep  the 
Lord's  money  ready."  But  this  after- 
noon she  seemed  quite  frightened  to  see 
me.  She  stood  all  the  time,  and  kept 
fidgeting  with  her  hands,  and  did  n't 
seem  to  know  what  she  was  saying.  It 's 
my  belief  she's  going  to  have  a  stroke 
or  something;  and  she  looks  years 
older  the  last  week  or  two.' 

Priscilla  shook  her  head  sadly.  She 
was  the  younger  sister,  and  had  not  yet 
outlived  sentiment.  She  sometimes  had 
dreams  of  quite  astonishing  sweetness, 
in  which  she  tasted  the  elusive  and  de- 
nied bliss  of  motherhood,  and  sighed 
wistfully  over  the  thought  of  how  differ- 
ent life  might  have  been  if  she  had  mar- 
ried John  Dartford.  But  that  was  an 
old  story,  and  one  that  could  never  be 
discussed  with  her  sister  Dorcas.     Yet 

121 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

there  was  a  bitter  sweetness  in  the 
thought  that  though  John  Dartford  had 
been  engaged  to  Dorcas,  it  was  Priscilla 
whom  he  had  loved ;  and  deep  in  the 
heart  of  this  white-haired  woman  there 
burned  the  embers  of  this  first  and  only 
passion.  There  were  times  still,  when 
as  these  two  solitary  women  sat  before 
the  fire  on  winter  nights,  the  spirit  of 
John  Dartford  came  between  them,  and 
Priscilla's  gentle  heart  burned  with  soft 
resentment  against  the  elder  sister,  who 
had  not  loved  her  lover  well  enough  to 
keep  him,  but  had  made  it  impossible 
for  him  to  claim  the  woman  who  would 
have  loved  him  to  the  death.  Poor, 
sad,  aged  women,  who  hear  the  wind  of 
regret  blowing  round  the  world,  and 
keep  in  the  heart  the  faded  rose-leaves 
of  a  first  passion,  —  I  wonder  if  there 
are  any  women  who  deserve  a  larger 
share  of  the  world's  pity  than  these ! 

Priscilla  was  full  of  these  poignant 
memories  while  her  sister  was  talking  of 
the  curious  conduct  of  Mrs.  Shannon. 
Presently    she    said    gently,   '  You    may 

122 


The   Parsimony  of  Mrs.   Shannon 

depend  upon  it,  the  poor  thing  's  broken 
down  by  the  conduct  of  Arthur.  Per- 
haps we  don't  quite  understand  how  a 
mother  feels  things.' 

'  I  don't  see  what  that  has  to  do  with 
it,  Priscilla,'  Dorcas  retorted  sharply. 
'  There  's  no  sense  in  giving  up  doing 
your  duty  because  your  son  has  n't 
turned  out  well.  It 's  like  trying  to  pay 
God  out  because  things  are  n't  as  you 
wish  'em.  And  as  for  feeling  like  a 
mother,  that 's  what  neither  of  us  knows 
anything  about,  and  don't  want  to,  and 
I  'm  surprised  at  your  indelicacy  in 
naming  it.  I  'm  quite  sure  if  you  was 
to  die  to-morrow,  Priscilla,  /  shouldn't 
withdraw  my  subscriptions  to  things, 
and  for  my  part  I  don't  see  any  sense 
in  such  conduct.  Not  but  what  I  'm 
sorry  for  her,'  she  continued,  '  and  I  in- 
tend paying  her  subscription  for  her, 
without  saying  anything.  But  all  the 
same,  I  'm  puzzled  to  know  what  it  all 
means.' 

In  the  course  of  the  next  month  a 
good    many  people  shared   the  puzzle, 

i^3 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

and  in  the  social  circles  of  the  Meeting- 
house it  was  constantly  discussed.  Many- 
eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  frail  little 
woman  in  the  big  pew,  especially  when 
the  collection  came.  After  that  first 
memorable  Sunday  she  did  not  permit 
the  plate  to  pass,  but  she  put  her  coin 
into  it  with  a  gesture  that  was  eloquent 
of  shame.  The  old  deacon  who  held 
the  plate  knew  the  reason  of  her  shame, 
but  he  was  magnanimous  enough  to 
keep  his  own  counsel.  He  saw  that 
the  coin  so  stealthily  slipped  into  the 
plate  by  that  trembling  hand  was  no 
longer  silver,  but  copper.  The  people 
in  the  next  pew  might  have  seen  it  also, 
had  he  not  fixed  his  eyes  upon  them 
with  so  ferocious  a  stare  that  they  were 
forced  to  turn  theirs  away.  But  if 
such  an  episode  as  this  could  be  con- 
cealed, it  was  obviously  impossible  to 
conceal  the  fact  that  Mrs.  Shannon 
had  not  paid  her  yearly  subscriptions 
to  some  half  a  dozen  '  societies,'  and 
the  discussion  of  this  theme  was  gen- 
eral. 

124 


The  Parsimony  of  Mrs.  Shannon 

There  was  one  person  who  might 
have  been  expected  to  know  all  about 
it;  but,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  the  minister 
knew  less  than  anybody  else.  From 
the  commencement  of  his  married  life 
he  had  been  accustomed  to  leave  the 
entire  management  of  his  slender  finances 
in  the  hands  of  his  wife.  Sometimes  he 
would  say,  '  I  hope,  Susan,  you  're  not 
giving  away  too  much?'  Whereupon 
she  would  retort  brightly,  '  You  leave 
all  that  to  me,  John.  I  can  manage.' 
She  did  manage,  by  many  shifts  and 
self-denials,  which  were  known  only  to 
herself.  Now  and  then  the  minister 
would  have  an  illuminated  moment, 
when  he  thought  that  he  discovered  in 
an  apparently  new  dress  a  suspicious 
resemblance  to  an  old  one.  But  the 
woman  who  cannot  hoodwink  a  man  on 
such  a  subject  is  manifestly  unworthy 
of  her  sex.  The  most  difficult  moments 
were  those  in  which  he  had  arrived  at  a 
passing  conviction  that  his  wife  was  not 
as  well  dressed  as  the  average  of  the 
congregation. 

I25 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

'  I  don't  like  to  see  you  shabby, 
Susan,  and  that  dress  is  shabby.' 

'  Why,  how  can  it  be  shabby  ?  I  've 
only  had  it  two  years.' 

'  But  everybody  has  new  dresses  in 
the  spring.  I  noticed  several  in  the 
chapel  this  morning.  Mrs.  Trevarton's 
for  one.' 

'  O  John,  John,  how  can  you  be  so 
foolish?  Why,  I  know  that  dress  of 
Mrs.  Trevarton's  well  enough.  It 's  only 
been  turned,  dear,  and  to  my  perfect 
knowledge  she  's  had  it  four  years.  So 
that 's  all  you  know.' 

'  Well,  I  believe  yours  has  been  turned, 
too.' 

'  Of  course  it  has,  but  only  once,  dear, 
and  Mrs.  Trevarton's  has  been  turned 
twice.  Now  don't  you  worry.  I  've 
got  all  the  clothes  I  want.  And  besides, 
there  's  my  wedding  dress,  which  is  as 
good  as  new  still.  I  '11  put  it  on  again 
some  day,  if  you  're  good  and  don't 
worry.' 

In  those  days  Susan  Shannon  had  a 
sweet  bird-like  trick  of  putting  her  head 

1 26 


The  Parsimony  of  Mrs.  Shannon 

on  one  side  when  engaged  in  contro- 
versy, which  gave  her  an  air  of  amiable 
pefkiness.  Had  any  one  risen  very 
early  on  some  magical  May  morning, 
and  seen  her  gravely  hopping  over  a 
dewy  lawn,  uttering  a  soft  lyrical  flute- 
note  for  pure  joy  of  the  dawn,  he  would 
scarcely  have  been  surprised.  John 
Shannon  in  his  earlier  years  rather  liked 
to  provoke  this  bird-like  semblance. 
He  found  it  pretty,  and  a  trifle  pathetic. 
But  as  time  wore  away  John  Shannon 
had  seen  less  and  less  of  what  went  on 
around  him.  I  honestly  believe  that  he 
had  not  noticed  the  least  change  in  his 
wife  for  close  on  thirty  years.  The 
image  of  the  girl  he  had  loved  and  won 
remained  so  steadfast  and  firm  of  out- 
line in  his  mind,  that  he  was  uncon- 
scious of  any  defacement  worked  by 
the  passing  of  the  years.  She  was  still 
to  him  young  and  pretty,  and  for  his 
eyes  there  were  neither  faded  cheeks, 
nor  grey  hairs,  nor  deep  lines  graved 
by  the  sure  hand  of  that  melancholy 
artist  we  call  Sorrow. 

127 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

In  this  time  of  grief  it  was  natural 
that  his  eyes  should  be  turned  within 
more  resolutely  than  ever.  His  thoughts 
brooded  so  constantly  over  his  lost  son, 
that  all  external  things  seemed  to  have 
melted  away  into  dim,  unreal  perspec- 
tive. Once  or  twice,  indeed,  it  did  oc- 
cur to  him  that  his  table  was  more 
scantily  furnished  than  usual,  and  he 
was  conscious  of  a  cold  breath  of  parsi- 
mony that  had  stolen  through  his  house. 
It  puzzled  him  a  little  ;  and,  lifting  his 
eyes  to  the  worn  face  of  his  wife,  for  the 
fraction  of  a  second  he  almost  saw  what 
others  saw  in  it.  A  thrill  of  fear  shook 
his  heart,  but  the  impression  was  quite 
momentary.  The  mask  which  his  im- 
agination had  created  had  merely  slipped 
away  for  an  instant  from  the  brow  of 
tragic  reality ;  swiftly  and  silently  it  was 
readjusted,  and  once  more  before  him 
there  sat  the  bride  of  his  youth.  Never- 
theless he  was  frightened,  and  he  began 
to  watch  his  wife  with  innocent  stealth. 
It  was  her  necessity  to  be  economical, 
he  thought,   but  it    was    hardly    in   her 

128 


The  Parsimony  of  Mrs.   Shannon 

nature  to  be  parsimonious.  She  was 
aware  of  his  thought,  and  said  with  a 
gesture  of  deprecation,  '  We  don't  need 
so  much  now  Arthur 's  gone.'  They 
looked  at  one  another  and  said  nothing. 
The  very  name  of  the  prodigal  was  like 
the  loud  clanging  of  a  knell  in  their 
hearts.  It  at  once  withdrew  attention 
from  all  other  thoughts. 

It  was  perhaps  a  month  later  that  the 
minister  went  to  bed  early  one  night, 
leaving  Mrs.  Shannon  at  work  in  the 
little  sitting-room.  He  dropped  asleep 
at  once,  and  slept  soundly  for  some 
hours.  When  he  woke  he  stretched  out 
his  arm  in  the  darkness,  and  was  sur- 
prised to  find  his  wife  had  not  come  to 
bed.  At  that  moment  he  heard  a  dis- 
tant clock  chime  two. 

It  was  a  moonless  night  in  June,  and 
the  room  was  in  entire  darkness.  An 
immense  loneliness  weighed  upon  him. 
His  heart  cried  for  his  son,  and  there 
came  to  him  the  vivid  picture  of  how 
long  years  before  a  cradle  had  stood 
beside  the  bed,  and  a  small  hand  had 
9  129 


Thro'    Lattice-Windows 

often  been  stretched  out  to  find  his  in 
the  early  dawn.  Instinctively  he  put 
out  his  hand,  and  withdrew  it  as  though 
he  had  thrust  it  into  a  flame.  The 
darkness  was  no  longer  lonely ;  it  closed 
upon  him  like  a  thing  alive,  —  a  crowd 
of  moments,  the  thronging  forms  of  de- 
parted joys  and  hopes.  So  acute  was 
this  sense  of  the  living  pressure  of  the 
darkness,  that  he  sprang  out  of  bed  with 
a  cry  of  pain.  The  action  broke  the 
spell,  and  his  mind  returned  to  its  first 
impression  of  surprise  at  the  absence 
of  his  wife. 

Slipping  on  his  clothes,  he  went  down 
the  stair  with  silent  feet.  He  pushed 
open  the  door  of  the  sitting-room  noise- 
lessly, and  looked  in.  There  sat  Susan 
Shannon,  hard  at  work  beside  a  table 
covered  with  innumerable  clippings  of 
coloured  cloth.  She  was  apparently 
engaged  in  manufacturing  a  hearth-rug 
of  the  kind  often  seen  in  farm  parlours. 
Each  bit  of  cloth  was  carefully  knotted 
with  strong  twine  upon  an  oblong  of 
rough    canvas,    and     under    her    skilful 

130 


The   Parsimony  of  Mrs.   Shannon 

touch  a  pattern  of  coloured  wheels  and 
crosses  was  growing  into  shape.  The 
work  was  rough  and  hard  ;  as  her  palms 
were  turned  slightly  upward  after  knot- 
ting the  twine,  he  could  see  the  redness 
of  rising  blisters  on  them.  From  time 
to  time  she  put  her  head  on  one  side, 
critically  examining  her  work.  While 
he  looked,  he  saw  her  carefully  fold  up 
the  rug,  and  heard  her  sigh  deeply. 
The  rug  was  put  away  in  an  oaken  chest, 
with  an  air  of  the  utmost  secrecy.  John 
Shannon's  tongue  was  tied  ;  he  was  too 
amazed  to  speak.  Noiselessly  he  stole 
upstairs  again,  and,  once  there,  could 
not  find  the  courage  to  mention  the 
strange  sight  he  had  seen. 

But  a  month  later  his  amazement  was 
greatly  increased  when  he  saw  what 
seemed  to  be  this  very  rug  hanging  in 
a  shop-window  at  Belchester,  marked  at 
twenty-five  shillings.  The  sudden  effort 
of  perception  in  a  man  usually  unob- 
servant is  often  singularly  acute ;  it  is 
the  quickening  of  a  dormant  faculty  into 
special  and  spasmodic  intensity.     John 

131 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

Shannon  was  sure  he  knew  that  rug. 
The  gaudy  wheels  and  crosses  on  the 
black  background  were  as  familiar  as 
his  own  hand.  The  next  afternoon  he 
made  pretence  of  indisposition,  that  he 
might  stay  at  home  while  his  wife  went 
out.  As  soon  as  the  house  was  still  he 
found  the  key  of  the  oaken  chest,  and 
unlocked  it  with  trembling  hands.  It 
was  as  he  thought;  another  partly  com- 
pleted rug  was  concealed  in  it.  He 
unrolled  it,  eyeing  it  critically.  He  must 
fix  this  pattern  in  his  mind,  he  must. 
The  one  business  of  his  life  must  be  to 
penetrate  this  strange  mystery.  Was 
it  possible  his  wife  was  deliberately  set- 
ting herself  to  earn  money  by  such 
means  as  this?  And  if  so,  why?  His 
mind  groped  vainly  for  the  least  clue. 
But  he  would  be  sure  this  time.  Taking 
a  pair  of  scissors,  he  carefully  snipped 
away  three  tags  of  yellow  cloth  in  the 
very  centre  of  the  rug.  It  was  impossi- 
ble that  any  one  but  himself  could  per- 
ceive the  difference.  But  he  would 
know ;   he  would    know    that    rug    any- 

132 


The  Parsimony  of  Mrs.   Shannon 

where  after  this.  He  felt  for  a  moment 
painfully  proud  of  his  acuteness.  Then 
he  carefully  replaced  the  rug,  and  locked 
the  chest.  He  sighed  heavily  in  doing 
so,  as  his  wife  had  done. 

It  was  now  the  end  of  June,  and  in  the 
second  week  of  July  the  minister  took 
his  annual  holiday.  For  the  first  time 
in  his  life  he  went  alone.  Mrs.  Shannon 
had  pleaded  for  a  wee'  s  perfect  rest  in 
her  own  house,  saying  that  she  could 
rest  nowhere  so  completely.  At  the 
end  of  the  week  she  would  join  him  at 
Barcombe. 

John  Shannon  left  her  with  reluctant 
heart;  he  perhaps  had  some  forewarn- 
ing of  the  blow  that  was  impending.  But 
she  smiled  brightly  on  him  as  he  went. 

'  I  shall  do  very  well,  dear,'  she  said. 
'  I  am  only  a  little  more  tired  than  usual 
this  year.  I  shall  be  all  right  by  the 
end  of  the  week.' 

He  did  not  notice  her  extreme  and 
growing  frailty.  The  fair  image  of  the 
bride  still  stood  between  him  and  her, 
and  his  eyes  were  holden  that  he  should 

133 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

not  see  the  melancholy  attenuation  of 
that  real  woman,  who  drooped  under 
his  eyes  like  a  withered  flower.  Nor 
did  he  say  a  word  of  that  painful  curi- 
osity which  had  eaten  its  way  into  his 
heart.  He  felt  afraid  to  speak  of  it. 
But,  as  he  left  her,  he  did  one  significant 
thing  which  marked  the  current  of  his 
thoughts.  He  took  her  right  hand  in 
his,  and  lifted  it  up,  so  that  the  rough- 
ened palm  was  exposed.  He  surveyed 
it  attentively  for  an  instant,  and  his  lips 
moved,  as  though  he  wished  to  speak. 
Then  he  bowed  his  head  reverently  and 
kissed  it. 

No  sooner  had  he  gone  than  Susan 
Shannon  unlocked  the  oaken  chest,  and 
began  to  work.  Through  the  long  day, 
and  far  into  the  night,  those  patient, 
ceaseless  hands  toiled  on.  The  next 
day  it  was  the  same,  and  the  next,  and  the 
next.  She  seemed  to  grow  thinner  and 
older  each  hour ;  it  was  as  though  her 
spirit  were  drained  out  of  her  by  the 
monstrous  thing  that  lay  upon  her  knees. 
She    scarcely    stopped    now   to    eat    or 

134 


The   Parsimony  of  Mrs.   Shannon 

drink.  She  felt  no  pain  from  the  sharp 
twine  which  had  cut  her  fingers  till 
they  bled.  The  whole  world  swam  be- 
fore her  as  a  maze  of  coloured  wheels 
and  crosses.  She  feared  her  eyes  were 
failing  her,  but  she  did  not  care  if  they 
only  lasted  till  her  work  was  done. 
She  was  dying,  —  she  knew  it  now. 
But  she  would  not  die  till  the  Lord's 
debt  had  been  paid  .  .  .  till.  .  .  .  There 
was  another  thought,  but  that  she  did 
not  dare  to  mention.  It  found  ex- 
pression only  in  one  sigh,  deep  and 
oft-recurring,  that  came  and  went  round 
her  like  a  wind  as  she  worked,  — '  O 
my  boy,  my  boy,  how  could  you  have 
done  it?' 

On  Friday  night  her  work  was  all 
done.  The  last  of  these  hideous  rugs 
was  finished,  and  safely  sent  to  Bel- 
chester.  She  cleared  away  all  the 
shreds,  and  burned  them.  On  Satur- 
day the  payment  of  her  work  arrived. 
It  was  in  gold,  and  was  sent  as  she  had 
requested  by  special  messenger  from 
Belchester.     The    youth    who    brought 

r35 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

the  money  whistled  as  he  went  out  at 
the  door.  He  was  half  frightened  by 
what  he  had  seen  within,  and  whistled 
to  keep  up  his  courage. 

During  the  morning  she  employed 
herself  in  writing  several  notes.  Each 
was  addressed  to  the  secretary  of  some 
society,  and  contained  half  a  sovereign. 
She  counted  up  what  was  left  of  her 
earnings,  and  added  some  money  which 
she  had  saved  from  her  housekeeping 
expenses.  This  she  put  in  the  drawer 
beside  her  bed  and  locked  the  drawer. 

She  was  ready  now  to  meet  her 
husband,  but  she  knew  that  she  would 
never  join  him  at  Barcombe.  Once 
more  a  frightful  sensation  of  weakness 
overcame  her;  once  more  the  world 
swam  away  from  her  in  an  intricate 
revolving  pattern  of  blazing  wheels  and 
crosses.  She  wrote  with  difficulty  a 
telegram  begging  him  to  come  to  her, 
and  got  the  chapel-keeper  to  take  it 
to  the  office.  Then  she  carefully  ar- 
rayed herself  in  her  wedding-dress,  and 
lay   down  upon  the  bed  to    rest.     She 

136 


The   Parsimony  of  Mrs.   Shannon 

was  waiting  for  the  bridegroom.  She 
heard  bells  ringing  in  her  brain,  heard 
solemn  words  spoken  over  her,  as  if 
the  clouds  spoke,  .  .  .  and  the  air  was 
lilac-scented,  and  spring  danced  with 
sun-winged  feet  upon  the  water,  and 
the  wind  chanted  one  glad  monotonous 
note,  a  cuckoo-word,  eternally  reiter- 
ated, '  Behold,  the  Bridegroom  cometh.' 
Then  the  darkness  rolled  over  her  like 
a  sea.  '  My  husband,  my  boy,'  she 
Avhispered,  as  the  wave  engulfed  her. 

It  was  so  John  Shannon  found  her  that 
night  when  he  came  home  from  Bar- 
combe —  unconscious,  worn  out,  arrayed 
in  her  wedding-dress  —  a  woman  who 
had  already  passed  far  into  the  mortal 
shadow.  And  his  eyes  were  no  longer 
holden ;  he  knew  he  looked  upon  the 
bride  of  death. 


137 


VIII 

THE  MONEY  IN  THE  DRAWER 

IT  was  Davy  Lumsden  who  was  the 
first  to  catch  sight  of  Arthur  Shan- 
non on  the  day  when  he  came  home, 
and  he  communicated  his  discovery  to 
Johnny  Button. 

The  autumn  rains  had  begun,  and 
Davy  was  absorbed  in  thinking  out  a 
new  architectural  design  for  his  pigsty, 
when  he  happened  to  look  over  the 
hedge  of  his  garden,  and  saw  the  figure 
of  a  young  man  slinking  in  and  out 
among  the  trees  that  grew  on  the  south 
side  of  Plumridge  Green.  Coming  out 
an  hour  later,  when  the  afternoon  had 
darkened,  he  was  surprised  to  find  the 
figure  still  standing  immobile  under  the 
trees.  The  last  watery  burst  of  sunset 
light,  striking  across  the  common,  em- 
phasised the  forlornness  of  this  unusual 

138 


The   Money  in  the   Drawer 

traveller.  The  rain  shone  upon  his 
tattered  mackintosh  coat,  and  his  blue 
cloth  cap  was  drawn  down  close  over 
his  eyes.  He  stood  as  one  utterly  for- 
saken, equally  without  hope  or  aim,  his 
arms  folded,  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the 
inhospitable  skies.  As  the  light  struck 
upon  him,  Davy  discerned  the  close- 
curling  rings  of  light  hair  beneath  the 
cloth  cap,  and  was  dimly  aware  of 
something  familiar  in  the  figure. 

«  He  don't  look  like  a  tramp,  and  he 
don't  look  like  a  tourist,'  said  Davy. 
'  That  cap 's  most  like  a  sailor's  by 
what  I  can  make  out.  But  't  ain't 
like  a  sailor  to  stand  all'  day  under 
them  trees  a-shelterin'  from  a  squeeze 
o'  rain.  I  'm  a-goin'  over  to  see  what 
't  is  he  wants.' 

Davy  lit  his  pipe,  and  clanged  his 
garden  gate  behind  him.  But  at  the 
sound  of  the  shut  gate  the  figure  be- 
neath the  trees  at  once  made  off,  and 
Davy,  watching  him,  said,  'Well,  I'm 
blest  if  that  ain't  young  Shannon.' 
An  hour  later,  Johnny  Button,  saunter- 
i39 


Thro'    Lattice-Windows 

ing  serenely  through  the  rain  with  an 
empty  sack  drawn  round  his  shoulders, 
stopped  at  Davy's  gate. 

'  Yes,  I  seed  'en,'  said  Johnny,  in 
reply  to  Davy's  inquiry,  '  an'  pretty  bad 
he  looked.  His  face  were  all  whisht  an' 
white,  and  he  went  lame  on  one  foot. 
His  face  fair  frighted  me,  it  were  that 
miserable ;  it  were  like  the  face  o'  one 
what  had  looked  on  bad  sights,  an' 
could  n't  forget  'em.' 

'  Did  'ee  speak  to  'en,  Johnny?' 

1 1  tried  to,'  said  Johnny.  '  I  'd  a  mind 
to  ask  'en  to  come  home  along,  an'  get 
warmed  up  wi'  a  cup  o'  tea,  but  he  just 
waved  me  away  wi'  his  hand,  an'  made 
off  like  one  possessed.  Reminded  me 
o'  the  madman  among  the  tombs,  he 
did.' 

1  Ah,  you  may  be  sure  he  hev  done 
somethin'  wrong  to  be  actin'  like  that,' 
said  Davy.  '  'T  is  queer  'o\v  they  sons 
o'  ministers  do  moastly  turn  out  so  bad. 
I  doubt  'tis  the  case  o'  Eli  an'  Phineas 
over  agen.' 

*  I   did  n't  feel   I  'd   no   call   to  think 
140 


The   Money  in   the   Drawer 

that  way,'  said  Johnny.  '  I  was  jest 
sorry  for  'en,  an'  wishin'  I  could  help 
'en  a  bit' 

In  the  meantime  the  prodigal  had 
limped  his  way  to  the  crest  of  the  hill 
above  Barford.  He  was  wet  through, 
and  had  eaten  nothing  since  the  early 
morning.  At  the  entrance  to  the  town 
was  a  little  shop,  where  mixed  comesti- 
bles, dear  to  the  tastes  of  boyhood,  were 
sold.  As  a  child  he  had  often  spent  his 
pennies  there,  and  his  feet  halted  by  a 
kind  of  instinct  at  its  threshold.  Pres- 
ently he  entered,  and  bought  a  handful 
of  biscuits.  It  was  a  great  relief  to  find 
that  during  the  months  he  had  been 
away  the  shop  had  changed  hands,  and 
the  bustling  motherly  woman  behind 
the  counter  did  not  know  him.  He  saw 
in  the  little  room  behind  the  shop  a 
fire  burning  brightly,  and  children  gath- 
ered round  the  hearth,  and  he  groaned. 
They  were  roasting  apples  at  the  fire, 
and  a  poignant  memory  of  his  own 
lost  childhood  came  back  to  him  with 
the  fragrance  of  the  apples. 

141 


Thro'    Lattice-Windows 

'You  look  rare  an'  bad,  young  man/ 
said  the  woman.     '  Hev  you  come  far?' 

'  I  have  come  from  the  far  country,' 
he  replied  sadly. 

The  woman  was  puzzled  at  his  speech, 
and  looked  at  him  anxiously.  Then 
she  stepped  hastily  into  the  room  be- 
hind the  shop,  and  returned,  bringing 
him  a  roasted  apple.  '  Eat  it  up,  my 
sonny;  'twill  do  'ee  good,'  she  said. 
But  he,  seeing  the  children  watching 
him  wide-eyed  in  the  doorway,  turned 
and  fled.  They  seemed  to  him  a  hostile 
jury  about  to  deliver  a  verdict  against 
him,  and  he  trembled  before  their  aston- 
ished innocence. 

In  the  grey  gloaming  he  stole  into  the 
town  like  a  shadow.  His  whole  past 
life  marched  with  him  as  he  walked  ;  it 
was  a  spectral  army,  marching  with  arms 
reversed,  to  the  sound  of  mournful  music. 
He  was  Arthur  Shannon,  he  told  him- 
self, the  minister's  son ;  he  had  always 
been  clever ;  he  was  cut  out  for  success 
—  every  one  had  said  so  —  and  he  could 
not  understand  how  this  immense  calam- 

142 


The   Money  in  the   Drawer 

ity  had  overtaken  him,  how  he  came  to 
be  marching  in  this  rabble  army  of  de- 
feat. He  had  meant  to  take  all  the 
bright  and  good  things  of  the  world  as 
a  natural  right,  certainly  by  an  easy 
conquest ;  and  in  his  ears  there  sounded 
only  these  melancholy  drums,  derisive, 
eloquent  of  disaster.  He  had  always 
meant  to  be  good, —  he  would  swear  he 
had  ;  and  here  he  was,  Arthur  Shannon, 
the  minister's  son,  carrying  his  black 
heart  through  the  streets  where  he  was 
born.  There  was  something  monstrous 
in  it  all,  intolerable,  unjust.  It  was  not 
fair  that  he  should  be  punished  so  heav- 
ily. He  felt  sure  that  he  would  never 
have  punished  any  one  else  after  this  fash- 
ion. He  would  have  let  them  off —  it  was 
the  duty  of  the  world  to  let  people  off. 

But  his  protest  died  upon  his  lips 
when  he  remembered  what  he  had  done, 
and  his  passion  of  revolt  whimpered  in 
him  like  a  beaten  cur.  For  the  moment 
he  had  squared  his  shoulders,  for  he  had 
felt  indignant  with  destiny;  now  they 
fell  forward  again,  and  he  walked  as  one 

i43 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

thoroughly  cowed.  The  hot  tears  rushed 
into  his  eyes  and  half  blinded  him.  He 
was  conscious  only  of  his  misery,  a 
misery  like  the  sea,  immense  and  mourn- 
ful, to  which  none  could  set  a  bound. 

He  was  now  close  to  Potterbee's  house, 
and  he  remembered  how  many  times  he 
had  vanquished  Paul  Potterbee  in  debate, 
how  they  had  read  the  same  books,  and 
dreamed  the  same  dreams,  and  sworn 
to  love  one  another  as  Jonathan  and 
David  did.  He  looked  hard  at  the  house, 
but  there  was  no  light  in  any  window, 
and  he  felt  the  darkness  of  the  house  like 
a  rebuke,  a  reproach,  a  purposed  inhos- 
pitality.  There  was  something  in  the 
blankness  of  its  aspect  that  chilled  him 
to  the  bone.  The  cold  rain  was  falling 
faster  now,  and  the  wind  was  rising. 

A  door  opened  a  little  further  up  the 
street,  and  a  gush  of  warm  light  shot 
forth.  A  youth  of  about  his  own  age 
came  out,  carefully  wrapped  up  against 
the  weather.  He  heard  the  youth's 
cheery  '  good-night '  as  he  crossed  the 
threshold,  and  saw  him  stoop  his  head 

i44 


The   Money  in  the   Drawer 

to  an  old  woman  who  put  her  hands  on 
his  shoulders  and  kissed  him. 

'  Oh,  my  mother !  '  he  half  sobbed. 
'  No  one  will  ever  kiss  me  again  like 
that !  ' 

He  began  to  wonder  vaguely  who  this 
youth  was,  and  where  he  was  going. 
He  had  a  mind  to  run  after  him,  and 
warn  him.  He  felt  quite  sure  of  the 
very  words  that  he  would  use.  He  saw 
himself  leading  back  this  truant  son  in 
triumph,  restoring  him  to  his  mother. 
...  It  was  some  moments  before  he 
recognised  the  stupidity  of  his  ideas. 
Then  he  said  bitterly,  '  But  no  one  ever 
does  stop  a  man  who  has  set  his  face 
toward  the  dark ;  no  one  ever  does 
know  what  the  far  country's  like  till 
he  's  got  there.' 

He  moved  away  slowly,  with  dragging 
feet.  Presently  he  came  to  the  low  wall 
of  the  churchyard.  Here  he  paused 
again,  leaning  wearily  against  the  wall. 
The  wooden  gate  swung  and  rattled  in 
the  wind,  and  the  noise  suggested  a  new 
idea  to  his  troubled  mind.  He  entered 
io  I45 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

the  graveyard  stealthily,  closing  the  gate 
behind  him.  But  if  he  had  had  any 
intention  of  finding  his  mother's  grave, 
the  gathering  darkness  had  now  made 
such  a  search  impossible.  Nevertheless 
he  sought  patiently  for  some  minutes, 
stumbling  in  the  wet  grass,  and  stoop- 
ing down  from  time  to  time  over  some 
mound  of  new-turned  earth.  There 
were  three  fresh  graves  —  so  much  he 
could  discern  —  but  there  was  not  a 
sien  to  show  him  under  which  of 
these  hideous  earthen  barriers  slept  his 
mother's  face.  He  had  a  vague  notion 
of  passing  the  night  there.  It  struck 
him  that  to  die  upon  his  mother's  grave 
was  the  one  thing  required  of  him  — 
he  had  read  of  such  things  in  books. 
People  would  find  him  there  in  the 
morning,  and  they  would  look  at  him 
mercifully,  knowing  he  had  expiated  all 
his  faults.  '  Oh,  my  mother,'  he  sobbed 
again;  and  the  rising  wind  roaring  in 
the  great  elms  caught  his  voice  up,  and 
made  a  mockery  of  it,  and  the  rain  beat 
down  with  a  new  violence.     When  the 

146 


The   Money  in  the  Drawer 

squall  passed  he  heard  the  water  tric- 
kling in  little  rivulets  down  the  slope  of 
the  three  new-made  graves. 

A  new  thought  came  to  him  —  he 
would  go  to  the  Red  House  and  see 
the  Splashetts.  Priscilla  Splashett  had 
always  been  kind  to  him.  It  would  be 
easier  to  face  his  father  if  he  had  already 
looked  upon  some  human  face  he  knew, 
and  seen  pity  in  it. 

He  turned  into  a  back  lane  behind 
the  church,  in  order  to  avoid  the  town, 
and  made  his  way  to  the  Red  House. 
At  the  end  of  the  lane  he  came  out 
upon  the  main  road,  directly  opposite 
the  big  iron  gates  of  the  Red  House. 
He  entered,  and  knocked  timidly  at  the 
door.  A  maid  opened  the  door,  and 
tossed  her  head  when  he  asked  to  see 
Miss  Priscilla.  She  went  to  the  dining- 
room,  and  he  could  overhear  all  that 
was  said. 

'Who  is  it?'  said  the  sharp  voice  of 

Dorcas. 

'  He  looks  like   a  tramp,  mem,'  said 

the  girl. 

i47 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

'  Goodness  !  You  surely  hav'  n't  asked 
him  in  a-trapesin'  his  wet  feet  over  the 
hall?' 

'  No,  mem.     He  's  in  the  porch.' 

'  Well,  give  him  a  shilling,  and  tell 
him  to  go  away.  I  dare  say  he  's  no 
good,  but  on  a  night  like  this  you 
can't  turn  him  away  without  giving  him 
something.' 

'  Perhaps  he  is  n't  begging,'  said  the 
soft  voice  of  Priscilla.  '  He  may  be 
some  one  in  sorrow.  Let  me  go  and 
see.'  .  .  . 

But  he  waited  to  hear  no  more.  A 
wave  of  intolerable  shame  swept  over 
him.  There  was  only  one  place  where 
such  misery  as  his  could  claim  asylum, 
only  one  door  at  which  he  would  not 
knock  in  vain.  He  would  go  home  at 
once. 

He  ran  down  the  gravelled  path  into 
the  main  road,  and  walked  rapidly  up 
the  High  Street,  till  he  came  to  the 
broad  archway  within  which  stood  the 
Meeting-house,  and  the  low  red-brick 
manse,    and     the     pebbled    quadrangle 

148 


The   Money  in  the   Drawer 

with  the  great  oak-tree,  which  he  knew 
so  well.  The  lamp  which  hung  in  the 
archway  was  not  lit,  for  there  was  no 
meeting  in  the  chapel  that  night.  He 
felt  this  to  be  fortunate ;  he  would  meet 
no  one,  he  would  not  be  recognised. 
And  yet  that  unlit  lamp  pained  him  like 
an  extinguished  hope. 

Once  within  the  archway,  his  resolu- 
tion failed  him  utterly.  For  months  he 
had  foreseen  and  forefelt  this  hour,  but 
he  had  never  imagined  how  bitter  it 
would  be.  Perhaps  after  all  it  would  be 
better  if  he  went  away.  It  would  be  a 
less  pain  to  his  father  to  think  him  dead 
than  to  see  him  thus.  He  crept  slowly 
to  the  window  that  opened  on  the  small 
living-room,  and  stood  there  a  long 
time  irresolute.  The  blind  was  not 
drawn,  and  looking  in,  he  saw  the  fire- 
light playing  on  the  polish  of  the 
mahogany  chairs,  and  the  furniture  with 
which  he  had  been  familiar  from  a  child. 
All  was  as  he  had  left  it;  it  was  as 
though  he  had  dreamed  an  evil  dream 
of  wretchedness  and  hunger,  and  all  that 

149 


Thro'   Lattice- Windows 

he  had  suffered  was  unreal.  This  room 
was  the  one  real  thing  in  the  universe, 
the  rest  a  whirling  phantasm.  This 
stood  steadfast,  unalterable ;  the  rest 
heaved  and  melted  like  a  mist.  And 
yet,  as  he  looked  with  hungry  eyes,  he 
saw  that  this  room  was  after  all  not  quite 
as  he  left  it.  One  thing  he  missed  — 
his  mother's  work-basket.  It  had  always 
stood  on  the  small  round  table  in  the  re- 
cess of  the  window.  It  was  not  there 
now. 

He  might  have  stood  there  half  the 
night  in  miserable  retrospect,  but  just 
then  the  door  opened,  and  his  father 
came  out.  Before  the  old  man  could 
utter  even  a  cry  of  astonishment,  the 
boy  was  in  his  arms.  Both  were  weep- 
ing as  they  passed  into  the  house. 

In  that  firelit  room  they  sat  and  talked 
for  hours,  till  the  fire  burned  low,  and 
they  could  scarcely  see  each  other's 
faces.  But  it  was  not  until  near  mid- 
night, as  they  were  going  to  bed,  that 
the  last  bitter  drop  of  penitence  was 
wrung  out  of  the  boy's  heart. 

ICO 


The   Money  in  the  Drawer 

'  Did  mother  tell  you  anything  about 
me  before  she  died?  Did  she  say  any- 
thing? ' 

'  She  died  in  silence,  my  son.  But 
the  night  before  she  died  she  prayed 
for  you,  and  said  she  should  meet  you 
some  day  in  heaven.' 

There  was  a  moment  of  embarrassed 
silence.  The  father,  standing  with  the 
bedroom  candle  in  his  hand,  saw  by  its 
light  that  the  boy's  eyes  had  dropped, 
and  that  his  face  had  grown  paler. 

'  We  won't  talk  of  it  any  more,  my 
son.  It 's  all  over  now,  and  God  has 
brought  you  back  safe  and  sound.' 

'  But  there  's  something  I  must  talk  of, 
father  —  something  I  hav' n't  told  you. 
May  I  see  .  .  .  see  the  room  where 
mother  died? ' 

The  old  man's  face  contracted  in  sud- 
den pain.  He  had  never  entered  that 
room  since  the  coffin  passed  out  of  it. 
But  it  was  only  natural,  he  thought, 
that  Arthur  should  wish  to  see  it.  God 
had  brought  his  son  back;  perhaps  it 
was  God's  will  that  that  sacred  room  of 

'51 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

death  should  be  the  shrine  where  the 
boy's  vows  of  penitence  should  be  di- 
vinely sealed. 

Yet  he  could  not  forbear  shuddering 
as  he  entered  it.  The  coldness  of  the 
dead  was  in  it  still.  It  had  the  dismal 
orderliness  of  the  room  that  is  swept 
and  garnished,  because  the  spirit  of  life 
has  passed  out  of  it  for  ever.  The 
pillowless  bed  yawned  stark  and  flat, 
the  dressing-table  was  bare.  On  the 
wooden  chair  beside  the  bed  was  a 
Bible,  and  on  the  Bible  the  little  book 
of  '  Daily  Meditations  '  which  the  dead 
woman  had  used  for  half  a  century. 

Arthur  stood  on  tiptoe,  gazing,  and 
shivered  in  the  frozen  air.  Then,  with 
sudden  resolve,  he  walked  across  the 
room  to  the  chest  of  drawers  which 
stood  beside  the  window.  He  tried 
to  open  the  top  drawer,  but  it  was 
locked.  He  looked  helplessly  at  his 
father,  who  watched  him  with  grow- 
ing concern. 

'  I  want  this  opened,'  he  whispered 
hoarsely.    '  There  's  something  in  it  .  .  . 

T52 


The   Money  in  the  Drawer 

something  I  must  see.  Have  you  never 
opened  it,  father? ' 

1  I  could  n't.  I  had  n't  the  heart  to. 
Come  away,  my  son.' 

He  stood  fumbling  in  his  pocket. 
Then  he  said,  with  a  deep  sigh,  '  Stay, 
here  's  the  key.  But  wait  till  to-morrow, 
then  we  '11  open  it  together.' 

'No,  father,  it  must  be  to-night  — 
now.' 

The  key  was  already  in  the  lock. 
'  Did  mother  lock  it  after  I  went  away?  ' 
said  the  boy. 

'  I  don't  know.  It  was  her  drawer  — 
I  never  saw  it  open.    Why  do  you  ask? ' 

'  I  thought  she  might.  There  would 
have  been  reasons.  It  never  used  to  be 
locked  before  I  went  away.' 

An  inexplicable  misgiving  seized  the 
old  minister.  A  sort  of  dreadful  illu- 
mination passed  over  his  mind.  Frag- 
mentary observations  and  intuitions 
began  to  piece  themselves  together  in 
his  thoughts. 

He  remembered  his  wife's  midnight 
toil,  his   conviction   that  it  was    under- 

*53 


Thro'    Lattice-Windows 

taken  as  a  means  of  raising  money,  her 
air  of  strange  secrecy,  and  her  curious 
parsimony.  He  remembered  that  none 
of  these  things  had  happened  till  Arthur 
went  away.  There  came  back  to  his 
mind  certain  softened  hints  of  long-de- 
ferred subscriptions  suddenly  paid  — 
paid  just  before  her  death.  And  now 
there  was  the  mystery  of  the  locked 
drawer.  It  had  never  been  locked  until 
after  Arthur  went  away.  Arthur  him- 
self had  said  that.  There  was  the  sweat 
of  great  terror  on  his  brow.  His  teeth 
chattered  in  his  head.  He  looked  fear- 
fully at  his  son. 

But  Arthur  Shannon  was  now  stand- 
ing quite  still,  with  agony  and  triumph 
written  on  his  face.  He  had  unlocked 
the  drawer,  he  stood  before  it  awe- 
struck. In  his  hand  he  held  his  mother's 
faded  leather  purse,  and  from  it  he  had 
taken  five  sovereigns,  which  he  placed 
upon  the  bed.  From  the  purse  he  had 
also  taken  a  piece  of  folded  paper,  on 
which  was  written,  '  The  Lord's  money,' 
in    his    mother's    delicate    handwriting. 

!54 


The   Money  in  the   Drawer 

He  laid  the  piece  of  paper  beside  the 
gold,  and  falling  on  his  knees  at  the 
bedside,  burst  into  an  agony  of  tears. 

'  My  son,  my  son,'  gasped  the  old 
man.  But  his  mouth  was  dry,  a  fire 
burned  in  his  throat,  no  other  word 
would  come. 

The  boy  looked  up  at  his  voice,  and 
that  vision  of  his  father's  face  decided 
him.  How  could  he  break  his  father's 
heart  by  telling  him  he  had  been  a 
thief  ?  He  knew  now  that  his  mother 
had  kept  the  secret  of  his  sin.  She  had 
gone  to  the  grave  with  it  locked  up  in 
her  heart.  She  had  paid  back,  by  what 
means  he  knew  not,  all  that  he  had 
taken  away  on  that  dreadful  day  when 
he  had  robbed  her  of  the  '  Lord's 
money.'  Surely  the  Lord  would  not 
be  hard  with  him,  if  he  left  that  sin 
unconfessed ;  surely  it  was  his  mother's 
hand  that  was  even  now  laid  upon  his 
lips,  and  her  voice  which  said,  '  For  my 
sake,  be  silent.  I  alone  know  the  sin. 
For  my  sake,  spare  your  father.' 

There  is  a  sin  that  is  not  unto  death, 
155 


Thro'    Lattice-Windows 

and  the  silence  of  Arthur  Shannon  was 
such  a  sin. 

'  Father/  said  the  boy,  '  kneel  down 
and  pray  with  me.  I  ...  I  think 
mother  wants  you  to.' 

The  old  man  knelt  and  prayed  long 
and  earnestly,  wrestling  for  the  soul  of 
his  son,  till  the  Angel  of  the  Dawn 
shook  glimmering  wings  of  gold  against 
the  window.  That  hideous  terror  which 
had  rent  his  heart  passed  out  upon  the 
passion  of  his  prayer.  It  vanished  like 
a  blur  of  breath  from  the  mirror  of  his 
simple  nature,  and  left  no  stain  behind. 
He  prayed  with  his  hand  upon  the 
boy's  bowed  head,  remembering  only 
the  child  who  had  stammered  at  his 
knee,  and  slept  within  his  arms.  And 
over  both  there  leaned  unseen  a  spirit 
brighter  than  the  Angel  of  the  Dawn,  — 
the  spirit  of  a  woman  who  knew  she  had 
not  died  in  vain. 


156 


IX 

POTTERBEE'S   FIRST   SERMON 

IT  was  always  remembered  in  Barford 
that  when  the  Squire  lay  dying  he 
had  sent  for  Potterbee  to  pray  with  him, 
and  had  said  to  him,  'You  dear  little 
man,  I  believe  I  can  die  easy  now.' 

Some  men  might  have  been  puffed  up 
at  such  a  speech,  and  there  was  certainly 
no  other  man  in  Barford  to  whom  pub- 
lic opinion  would  not  have  grudged 
the  honour  of  such  a  compliment;  but 
every  one  felt  that  Potterbee  had  fairly 
earned  it.  He  was,  in  truth,  a  '  dear 
little  man.'  He  came  of  a  long  ances- 
try of  Quakers,  and  although  he  had 
become,  by  force  of  circumstance,  a 
deacon  at  the  Meeting-house,  he  never 
lost  the  Quaker  mould.  He  usually 
wore  a  high  white  cravat,  and  a  black 
coat  of  antiquated  cut.  His  hair  was  of 
a  silvery  whiteness,  and  his  face  had  the 

157 


Thro'   Lattice- Windows 

peace  of  quiet  waters  in  a  sunny  pool. 
He  lived  in  a  small  house  at  the  end  of 
the  High  Street,  and  behind  it  stretched 
a    long    garden    full    of    old-fashioned 
flowers.      He    had    means    of  his    own, 
although  they  were  very  much  less  than 
was  generally  supposed,  and  had  he  cared 
to  lead  an  idle  life,  there  was  no  one  to 
say  him  nay.     But  Potterbee  was  one  of 
those  men  who  are  visibly  ordained  for 
the   comfort  of  the  world,  and   he   had 
long  ago  recognised  his  mission.    Every 
morning,  on  the  stroke  of  ten,  he  went 
down   the  street    to  visit  the   sick,   and 
there  was  no  day  when  he  did  not  carry 
a  little  of  his  sunshine  into  some  place 
of  darkness.     I,  for  one,  can  bear  witness 
that,   when    I    first    made    acquaintance 
with  death,  I  found  no  peace  till  Potter- 
bee    prayed    in   that   dark    room   where 
the  coffin  stood ;    I  felt  as  though  I  had 
seen  an  angel  sitting  in  the  tomb  when 
he  finished. 

Now  the  Potterbees  had  only  one  son, 
and  it  was  he  whose  first  sermon  occa- 
sioned so  much  sensation.     Paul  Potter- 

15S 


Potterbee's   First  Sermon 

bee  was  a  shy  and  retiring  youth,  and 
from  his  birth  his  parents  had  prayed 
that  he  might  become  a  minister.  It 
is  to  be  feared  that  on  many  a  dull 
Sunday  at  the  Meeting-house,  when  old 
Mr.  Shannon  was  not  quite  at  his  best, 
the  two  innocent  old  people  in  the  big 
corner  pew  had  wandering  thoughts, 
through  which  there  ran  like  a  bright 
thread  the  fancy  of  how  Paul  would  look 
in  the  pulpit.  Many  times  Rachel  Pot- 
terbee  would  say  to  her  husband,  '  I 
begin  to  fear  it  is  not  the  Lord's  will, 
William.'  But  he  would  reply,  '  Well, 
we  can  pray  about  it,  Rachel,'  and 
Paul  never  knew  how  often  at  dead  of 
night  these  two  old  folks  knelt  in  the 
room  next  to  his,  holding  one  another's 
hands,  and  praying  softly  that  it  might 
please  the  Lord  to  make  their  boy  His 
messenger. 

At  length,  on  one  happy  spring  morn- 
ing, Paul,  who  was  now  eighteen,  with 
many  blushes  told  his  father  that  he 
would  like  to  preach.  The  old  man 
kissed  him  on   the    forehead,  and  went 

159 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

out  into  the  garden  quite  pale  with  joy. 
Rachel  saw  him  standing  with  clasped 
hands  beside  the  bed  of  yellow  jonquils 
near  the  blossoming  apple-tree,  and  with 
a  swift  divination  of  what  had  happened 
ran  out  to  him  with  a  face  as  pale  as  his 
own.  '  Is  it  Paul?'  she  whispered,  and 
the  shining  in  the  old  man's  eyes  gave 
her  eloquent  reply.  They  fell  back,  as 
they  always  did  in  moments  of  great 
excitement,  into  the  sweet  Quaker 
tongue,  '  the  single  language,'  as  it  is 
called,  and  began  to  '  thee  '  and  '  thou ' 
one  another  in  soft  voices.  Paul,  look- 
ing out  of  the  window  of  the  little  room 
he  called  his  study,  saw  them,  and  never 
forgot  the  sight.  Years  afterwards, 
when  he  got  adrift  on  strange  seas  of 
doubt  for  a  time,  the  memory  of  that 
spring  morning  came  back  to  him  like 
a  holy  vision,  and  it  held  within  it  the 
light  by  which  he  found  his  way  back  to 
faith.  Men  often  forget  many  things 
that  learned  theologians  teach  them,  but 
they  never  forget  that  their  parents  knew 
what  the  gate  of  heaven  meant. 

160 


Potterbee's   First  Sermon 

But,  if  the  truth  were  told,  Paul  on  that 
morning  had  only  the  vaguest  ideas  of 
what  preaching  meant.  He  had  but 
lately  found  his  tongue  in  the  debates 
of  '  the  Society  '  at  the  Meeting-house, 
and  was  somewhat  intoxicated  with  the 
pleasure  of  his  newly  discovered  gift. 
The  fact  was,  his  desire  to  preach  owed 
a  good  deal  to  the  conviction  that  he 
was  capable  of  doing  quite  as  well  as 
Mr.  Shannon,  who  had  begun  to  fail 
lately.  It  is  not  an  unusual  thing  for 
a  shy  youth  to  hide  under  his  diffidence 
a  quite  preposterous  pride.  Paul  had 
lately  read  by  stealth  certain  modern 
books  which  sounded  quite  a  new  note, 
—  a  note  not  found  in  any  of  the  solid 
and  respectable  volumes  on  old  Mr. 
Potterbee's  shelves.  He  felt  a  convic- 
tion that  he  was  born  to  grapple  with 
great  problems.  He  had  attentively 
surveyed  his  forehead  in  the  glass,  and 
was  inclined  to  argue  from  its  contour 
the  possession  of  genius.  He  was  per- 
fectly aware  of  the  hopes  with  which 
his  parents  regarded  him,  although  he 
ii  i6i 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

was  quite  incapable  of  measuring  the 
profound  deeps  of  spirituality  from 
which  they  sprung.  On  that  April  morn- 
ing, when  he  saw  his  parents  under  the 
blossoming  apple-tree,  his  first  sermon 
lay  completed  on  his  desk.  He  knew 
every  word  of  it  by  heart.  It  was  an 
elaborate  vindication  of  the  ways  of  God 
with  men,  founded  on  the  saying  of 
Elihu  that  '  men  see  not  the  bright  light 
that  is  in  the  clouds.' 

The  place  where  aspirants  for  pulpit 
honours  were  accustomed  to  exercise 
their  gifts  was  a  small  red-brick  chapel 
on  the  edge  of  a  common,  that  went  by 
the  name  of  Plumridge  Green.  It  lay 
about  three  miles  to  the  south  of  Bar- 
ford,  and  its  people  were  notorious  for 
the  bluntness  of  their  speech.  Many  a 
candidate  for  the  pulpit  had  buried  his 
hopes  on  Plumridge  Green,  to  the  un- 
feigned satisfaction  of  its  inhabitants, 
who  made  light  of  all  genius  that  came 
from  Barford.  Even  Mr.  Shannon  rather 
dreaded  the  impassive  faces  of  a  Plum- 
ridge   audience.       There    were    half  a 

162 


Potterbee's   First  Sermon 

dozen  old  men  who  used  to  sit  near  one 
another  in  the  front  pews,  and  they  had 
a  most  disconcerting  habit  of  pretending 
to  be  asleep,  which  might  have  imposed 
upon  a  person  not  observant  enough  to 
remark  that  at  any  error  of  doctrine 
twelve  white  eyebrows  were  simultane- 
ously lifted,  in  what  seemed  like  patient 
scorn.  It  was  at  Plumridge  Green  that 
young  Paul  Potterbee  preached  his  first 
sermon. 

It  was  a  solemn  moment  when  he  left 
the  small  house  in  the  High  Street  to  go 
upon  his  momentous  journey. 

'  Oh,  my  dear  boy,  preach  Christ,' 
said  his  mother,  as  she  drew  him  to 
her  breast  and  kissed  him.  '  There  's 
nothing  else  worth   preaching.' 

It  made  him  a  little  uncomfortable, 
for  he  knew  that  there  was  nothing  in 
his  sermon  about  Christ.  His  father 
walked  with  him  a  mile  upon  the  road, 
and  would  have  liked  to  have  gone  with 
him  all  the  way,  but  dared  not.  They 
parted  at  the  point  where  the  road 
strikes  the  open  moor,  and  the  dear  old 

163 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

man  stood  bare-headed  in  the  spring 
wind,  and  prayed  for  Paul.  At  that 
moment  Paul  felt  the  strongest  impulse 
to  turn  back.  He  was  oppressed  by  a 
miserable  sense  that  after  all  he  had 
nothing  to  say. 

'  Dear  Lord,  be  good  to  my  boy,' 
pleaded  the  old  man.  '  Give  him  utter- 
ance and  knowledge.  Help  him  to 
preach  the  grace  and  truth  of  Thy  Son, 
our  Saviour.' 

He  took  his  son's  hand,  and  asked 
timidly  what  text  he  was  going  to  take. 
Paul  told  him  with  a  blush.  He  dared 
not  tell  him  that  he  had  learned  his 
sermon  by  heart. 

'  Yes,  yes,'  the  old  man  replied.  '  It 's 
a  good  text.  I  can  read  God's  truth  in 
it.  But  don't  forget  that  the  only  true 
light  in  the  cloud  is  the  bright  and  Morn- 
ing Star.  Oh,  my  dear  boy,  preach 
Christ.' 

There  was  no  one  near,  and  he  kissed 
the  youth.  At  that  moment  each  had 
an  unspoken  misgiving  in  his  heart. 
The  old  man  was  afraid  that  Paul  had 

164 


Potterbee's   First  Sermon 

taken  a  wrong  text,  and  Paul  had  begun 
to  doubt  the  excellence  of  his  elaborate 
sermon. 

'Won't  you  come  with  me,  father?' 
said  Paul,  with  a  sudden  rush  of  affec- 
tion. There  was  entreaty  in  his  voice 
too,  for  he  was  growing  afraid  of  the 
ordeal.  He  had  never  before  realised 
that  it  is  a  terrible  thing  to   preach. 

'  I  can't,  I  dare  not,'  said  the  old  man. 
'  But  I  won't  go  home.  I  shall  walk  up 
and  down  the  road  and  pray  for  you. 
You  '11  find  me  waiting  for  you  here 
when  you  come  back.' 

He  felt  in  his  pocket,  and  drew  from 
it  a  packet  of  jujubes,  which  he  solemnly 
placed  in  Paul's  hand. 

'  Your  mother  forgot  to  give  them  to 
you.  They  're  good  for  the  voice,  I 
believe.' 

It  sounded  oddly  enough,  but  neither 
recognised  the  oddity.  It  was  a  relief 
to  both  to  smile  with  simple  human 
kindliness  just  then. 

'And  you  must  wrap  your  throat  up 
after    preaching.      Have    you    got    your 

165 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

silk  neckerchief  ?    Your  mother  was  very 
particular  about  that.' 

Paul  produced  it,  and  there  were  tears 
in  his  eyes  as  he  said,  '  Mother  's  always 
thinking  of  me,  is  n't  she?  I  hope  she  '11 
pray  for  me.' 

'  We  shall  both  be  praying  for  you, 
my  son.  We  prayed  for  this  night 
eighteen  years  ago  when  you  were  born.' 

Paul  moved  slowly  away,  looking 
back  from  time  to  time  to  the  small 
black  figure  silhouetted  against  the 
amber  sky.  He  had  already  discerned 
in  the  distance  the  two  '  chief  men '  of 
the  Plumridge  Green  Chapel,  whose 
custom  it  was  to  meet  the  preachers 
from  Barford  half-way,  in  order  that 
they  might  talk  to  them  for  their  good 
during  the  latter  part  of  their  journey. 

They  were  two  of  the  six  old  men 
who  sat  in  the  front  pew.  They  walked 
slowly,  with  shoulders  sloped  forward, 
for  their  backs  were  bent  with  forty 
years  of  outdoor  work. 

'  Be  you  the  praicher?  '  said  one. 

Paul  modestly  admitted  the  fact. 
166 


Potterbee's   First   Sermon 

'Well,  you  be  a  little  'un,  to  be  sure. 
Let's  look  at  'ee,  now.' 

They  surveyed  him  slowly,  as  though 
he  had  been  a  natural  curiosity.  Paul 
felt  that  they  were  quite  capable  of 
walking  round  him  and  poking  their 
fingers  into  his  ribs  to  ascertain  if  he 
was  in  condition.  He  smiled  feebly  and 
blushed  vividly. 

When  they  had  completed  their  sur- 
vey, they  addressed  one  another  on  the 
subject. 

'  Well,  he  be  a  little  'un,  sure  enough, 
bain't  'ee? ' 

'  Do  look  as  if  he  have  somethin'  in 
him,  howsoever.' 

'  Bigness  ain't  everythin'.' 

'No.  Tis  said  David  were  a  little 
'un.' 

'  We  shall  know  by  the  time  we  've 
done  wi'  him.' 

'  An'  so  will  he.' 

Whereat  they  smiled  grimly,  remem- 
bering the  fate  of  many  other  promising 
apostles  who  had  found  martyrdom  at 
Plumridge     Green.      They    established 

167 


Thro'    Lattice-Windows 

themselves  one  on  either  side  of  the 
blushing  Paul,  as  though  they  had  been 
commissioned  to  take  him  into  custody. 
In  that  order  they  proceeded  along  the 
road  in  silence  for  about  half  a  mile. 

At  last  one  of  them  said,  rather  un- 
justly, '  Well,  young  man,  you  have  n't 
much  to  say  for  yourself 

'  What  do  you  expect  me  to  say? ' 

'  Well,  talk  to  us  —  tell  us  what  you  're 
goin'  to  praich  about.  Be  'ee  goin'  to 
praich  to  us  about  Peter,  now?  ' 

Paul  meekly  observed  that  he  was 
not. 

'  But  you  must.  We  're  fond  o'  Peter 
up  hereabouts.' 

'  But  I  can't,'  said  Paul,  with  a  touch 
of  irritation.  There  was  silence  for  a 
few  minutes,  and  then  his  persecutors 
began  again. 

'  Do  'ee  praich  about  Peter,  now.  Tell 
us  what  you  do  think  of  his  char- 
acter.' 

Paul  could  not  understand  this  un- 
reasonable obstinacy.  It  was  a  positive 
relief  when  one  of  the  old  men  turned  to 

168 


Potterbee's   First  Sermon 

personal  questions  again  by  asking  how 
old  he  was.  Paul  made  confession  to  his 
eighteen  years,  whereupon  the  other  re- 
marked, 'Well,  'tis  true,  you're  but  a 
little  'un.' 

Plumridge  Green  was  in  sight,  and  at 
the  fourth  cottage  on  the  Green  his  con- 
ductors stopped.  There  was  an  hour 
before  service,  and  Paul  was  expected 
to  take  tea.  The  other  four  '  chief 
men '  had  already  arrived,  and  were 
carefully  scrutinising  him.  They  began 
to  talk  about  him  with  the  most  elaborate 
disregard  of  his  presence. 

'  Potterbee's  son?' 

'  Yes.' 

'Well,  he  ought  to  be  fairish.  But 
't  ain't  good  fathers  as  make  good  sons. 
I  knew  a  man  at  St.  Colam  once  who 
had  the  cleverest  head-piece  anywhere 
roundabout — Romford  his  name  were 
—  an'  his  son  were  a  fool.' 

'  Last  one  we  had  up  here  praiching 
broke  down.  He  'd  learned  his  sermon, 
an'  when  Johnny  Flint  pushed  the  form 
over    it   upset  him    so    he    forgot  ivery 

169 


Thro'    Lattice-Windows 

word.     So  we  singed  a  hymn  and  went 
home.' 

'  Seemed  like  a  good  sermon  too,  if 
he  only  could  ha'  remembered  it.' 

'  No  doubt,  no  doubt.  The  eggs  as  is 
never  laid  is  always  the  finest.' 

'  'T  is  a  pity  to  learn  sermons.  They 
do  never  sound  the  same.  'T  is  like 
water  from  a  pump,  —  the  water  's  good 
enough,  but  you  hear  the  pump-handle 
a-creaking.' 

'  'T  ain't  given  to  iverybody  to  have 
his  words  flow  from  him  nateral.' 

Paul  felt  more  and  more  uncomfort- 
able. He  suddenly  realised  that  he 
must  be  alone.  He  wanted  once  more 
to  consult  that  excellently  written  dis- 
course which  lay  in  his  breast-pocket. 
He  was  certain  that  he  had  forgotten 
the  passage  in  which  he  treated  of  life 
as  a  cloudy  day,  and  of  the  natural 
phenomenon  that  there  was  always  a 
blue  sky  somewhere  behind  the  cloud. 

'  I  should  like  to  be  alone  for  half  an 
hour,'  he  said  apologetically.  '  I  think 
I  '11  go  out  for  a  walk.' 

170 


Potterbee's   First  Sermon 

'  Certainly,  certainly,'  said  his  host. 
'  Bless  you,  I  '11  go  with  'ee.  I  '11  show 
'ee  round  the  village  now.' 

'  But  I  'd  rather  go  alone.' 

'  Oh,  but  you  'd  get  lost.  You  'd 
never  find  your  way  about.  I  '11  go 
with  'ee.' 

The  six  old  men  looked  at  one  another 
significantly.  They  quite  understood 
that  Paul  wanted  to  re-read  the  elabo- 
rate production  in  his  pocket. 

'  T  is  so,'  one  said  sadly.  '  He  've 
learned  it  for  certain.  'T  will  be  very 
fine,  no  doubt,  but  that  sort  won't  bind 
up  no  broken  hearts.' 

The  words  caused  a  curious  vibration 
in  the  mind  of  Paul.  For  the  first  time, 
he  looked  closely  at  these  six  old  men. 
It  was  not  only  labour  that  had  written 
all  those  lines  on  their  faces  ;  the  relent- 
less graver  of  sorrow  had  been  busy 
there  also.  Those  deep  furrows  on  the 
cheek  had  been  the  channels  down 
which  tears  had  rushed.  And  in  their 
eyes  there  was  a  look  that  troubled  his 
young  heart,  that    suggested   a  hunger 

171 


Thro'    Lattice-Windows 

not  of  the  body,  a  yearning  for  visions 
not  of  the  earth. 

'  You  '11  praich  about  Peter,  won't  'ee  ?  ' 
was  the  last  word  of  his  host,  as  he  con- 
ducted him  to  the  pulpit-stair.  '  There  's 
a  many  of  us  here  as  wants  comforting, 
and  we  allers  feels  better  when  we  hear 
what  the  dear  Lord  said  to  Peter.  I 
wish  'ee  well,  young  man.  Don't  'ee 
be  afeard.' 

He  shook  Paul's  hand  with  clumsy 
cordiality,  and  the  next  moment  the 
youth  found  himself  face  to  face  with 
his  audience.  The  'chief  men'  sat  in 
their  pews,  sad  and  monumental ;  three 
or  four  dozen  people  were  sprinkled 
over  the  place.  In  a  pew  near  the 
door  sat  a  woman  in  black,  with  five 
small  children ;  her  husband  had  been 
buried  the  week  before.  The  tall,  con- 
sumptive-looking man  by  her  side  was 
her  husband's  brother,  who  had  walked 
over  from  St.  Colam  with  some  vague 
idea  of  a  funeral  service.  The  only 
smiling  face  in  the  little  chapel  was  that 
of  Solomon   Gill,  the    ploughman,   who 

172 


Potterbee's   First  Sermon 

acted  as  precentor.  But  then  Gill  was 
always  happy.  He  glowed  under  the 
dullest  sermon.  The  mere  name  of  his 
Lord  made  his  face  kindle. 

It  was  only  by  degrees  that  Paul  saw 
all  this.  A  mist  was  before  his  eyes, 
and  a  great  terror  clutched  his  heart. 
His  voice  sounded  to  him  like  the  voice 
of  some  one  else.  It  seemed  like  the 
thin  echo  of  a  voice  in  a  dream,  an  at- 
tenuated voice,  the  ghost  of  a  voice. 
He  could  not  believe  it  possible  that 
any  one  but  himself  could  hear  it.  It 
was  with  genuine  relief  that  he  heard 
the  people  join  in  the  singing  of  the 
hymn  he  had  given  out,  —  it  was  an  as- 
surance that  he  could  not  have  been 
quite  inaudible,  after  all.  '  Hark,  my 
soul,  it  is  the  Lord,' — yes,  they  were 
really  singing.  Solomon  Gill  looked 
up  at  him  with  a  grateful  smile,  —  it 
was  his  favourite  hymn.  He  began  to 
breathe  freely  again. 

The  hymn  was  sung,  the  Scripture 
was  read,  and  he  had  contrived  to  pray. 
But  now  a  new  terror  confronted   him. 

J73 


Thro'    Lattice-Windows 

He  was  certain  that  he  had  forgotten 
every  word  of  his  sermon.  He  had 
forgotten  where  the  text  was.  A  ter- 
rible suspicion  seized  him  that  it  was 
not  in  the  Bible  at  all.  In  his  agony  he 
boldly  dragged  his  manuscript  out  of 
his  pocket,  but  his  agitation  was  so 
great  that  he  could  scarcely  read  a 
word  of  it.  They  were  singing  the 
hymn  before  the  sermon.  In  another 
moment  or  two,  preach  he  must.  He 
turned  the  Bible  over  with  feverish 
hands  to  find  the  Book  of  Job.  He 
could  not  find  it.  There  seemed  to  be 
nothing  but  the  Psalms  in  the  Old  Tes- 
tament. It  was  perfectly  ridiculous,  — 
Job  must  be  in  the  Bible.  An  absurd 
thought  occurred  to  him,  that  the  Bible 
used  at  Plumridge  Green  Chapel  must 
be  some  other  edition  of  the  Scriptures. 
Job  had  been  cut  out  of  it,  as  the  Apoc- 
rypha had.  He  would  have  to  give  his 
text  out  without  saying  where  it  was. 
But  then  he  did  not  even  know  the 
text,  —  it  was  something  about  clouds, 
and    that    was    all    he     knew.       Dark- 

i74 


Potterbee's   First  Sermon 

ness  seemed  to  settle  over  his  mind ;  it 
fell  like  a  curtain.  And  then  he  was 
suddenly  aware  of  a  terrific  silence.  The 
hymn  had  ceased,  the  people  were  wait- 
ing for  him  to  preach. 

'  You  '11  praich  about  Peter,  won't  'ee? 
There  's  a  many  of  us  here  wants  com- 
forting.' 

Who  was  it  had  said  that?  It  was  a 
long  time  ago — perhaps  when  he  was 
a  boy.  And  with  it  there  sounded 
like  a  far-away  bell  another  sentence,  — 
'  Preach  Christ ;  there  's  nothing  else 
worth  preaching.' 

Half  mechanically  his  hand  turned  to 
the  New  Testament.  It  was  quite  use- 
less to  search  for  the  Book  of  Job  any 
longer ;  he  was  certain  that  it  was  not 
in  the  Bible  —  at  least,  not  in  the  Plum- 
ridge  Green  edition. 

His  pride  hung  in  tatters.  It  was  all 
a  bitter  blunder,  —  he  could  not  preach. 
All  at  once  a  light  broke  upon  him.  He 
was  at  the  last  chapter  of  St.  John's 
Gospel.  He  was  actually  reading  out  a 
text, — '  So  when  they  had  dined,  Jesus 

175 


Thro'    Lattice-Windows 

saith  to  Simon  Peter,  Simon,  son  of 
Jonas,  lovest  thou  Me  more  than  these?  ' 
The  mist  lifted,  and  he  saw  the  people 
sitting  hushed.  The  '  chief  men  '  were 
wide  awake,  and  their  impassive  faces 
were  lifted  eagerly  to  his.  A  warm  rush 
of  love,  pity,  sympathy,  filled  his  young 
heart  like  a  tide.  He  felt  borne  along 
by  a  wind  of  God, —  the  sensation  was 
like  that  he  had  experienced  when  he 
had  dreamed  he  was  flying.  Yes ;  he 
was  preaching,  but  he  could  not  have 
told  how.  He  was  only  conscious  of 
a  keen  passion  for  souls.  He  felt  as 
though  he  was  passing  into  the  lives  of 
these  people  by  some  sort  of  miraculous 
instinct.  The  woman  in  black  near  the 
door  was  smiling  through  her  tears,  the 
consumptive-looking  man  beside  her 
was  bent  forward,  listening.  As  for 
Solomon  Gill,  his  face  shone  like  the 
face  of  an  angel. 

It  was  over.  He  descended  the  pul- 
pit, treading  delicately,  as  with  winged 
feet.  He  walked  down  the  aisle  in  a 
kind   of  rapture,   vaguely   conscious  of 

176 


Potterbee's   First  Sermon 

friendly  faces  shining  on  him  through  a 
heaven-tinted    mist.      At  the    door  the 
woman  in  black  laid  her  hand  in  his,  and 
said     something     which     sounded    like 
thanks,    and    he    saw    the    eyes    of  five 
small  children   raised  to  his  in   solemn 
awe.     It   astonished    him  as  he  passed 
into  the  open  air  to  find  the  world  quite 
unchanged.     A    cuckoo   was  calling   in 
the   woods,    the    first   stars    of  evening 
hung  in  the  pale  blue  sky.     He  hurried 
over  the  Green  with  the  blood  surging 
in  his  veins.     He  could  not  contain  him- 
self.    His  whole  experience    had  been 
so  extraordinary  that  he  found  himself 
talking   of  it   to    the   very  trees  as  he 
walked.     He  wanted  to  take  the  whole 
world  into  his  confidence. 

At  the  cross  roads,  on   the  edge   of 
the  moor,  he  met  his  father  that  night. 

'  Father,'    he    said    breathlessly,    '  I 
did  n't  preach  it.     I  could  n't.' 

'  What    did    you    preach    then,    my 
son?  ' 

'  I  tried  to  preach  Christ,'  said  Paul, 

in  a  low  voice. 

12  177 


Thro'    Lattice-Windows 

The  old  man  put  his  arms  round  the 
boy's  neck  and  kissed  him. 

'  I  knew  you  would,  my  dear  boy. 
For  eighteen  years  your  mother  and  I 
have  prayed  for  this  night,  and  God  is 
too  good  to  disappoint  us.  You  '11  be 
an  old  man  some  day,  Paul,  and  when 
you  are  you  '11  be  sorry  to  think  that 
you  ever  preached  anything  but  Christ. 
If  ever  you  are  tempted  to  do  so,  don't 
forget  this  night.' 

And  Paul  never  did. 


178 


X 

A  PIOUS  FRAUD 

COMING  into  Barford  one  spring 
evening  to  get  a  pair  of  boots 
mended  at  Craddock's,  Johnny  Button 
saw  Lumsden  going  up  the  street,  and 
said  to  Craddock,  '  Davy  seems  in  a 
hurry-like.  I  wonder  now  what  he  's 
up  to.' 

'  On  the  save,  you  may  be  sure,' 
grunted  Craddock,  for  Lumsden's  repu- 
tation was  well  known. 

'He  be  a  near  'un,  bain't'ee?'  said 
Johnny,  adding  after  a  meditative  pause, 
'  though  I  've  know  'd  nearer.' 

'  Nearness  is  nearness,'  said  Craddock 
philosophically.  '  It  be  like  gutta-per- 
cha, you  can  shape  it  differen'  ways,  but, 
so  to  speak,  't  is  always  the  same  thing.' 

'That's  true,'  said  Johnny,  'but  still 
I  've  know'd  nearer  nor  Davy.  There 
was  a  man    I   know  'd   once    as  had  to 

179 


Thro'    Lattice-Windows 

take  the  praicher  home  to  dinner  two 
Sundays  runnin',  an'  bein'  a  near  man, 
he  cast  about  to  see  W  he  could  do  it 
cheap.  Now  it  so  happed  that  he  'd 
read  in  a  paper  that  if  you  was  to  put  a 
jint  of  cooked  meat  in  a  oil-cloth,  and 
bury  it  about  a  foot  in  the  earth,  it  'ud 
keep  no  end  o'  time.  This  man,  I 
should  say,  wure  a  farmer,  an'  a  bache- 
lor, wi'  nobody  but  a  old,  ancient 
housekeeper  to  look  after  him,  an'  he 
put  up  wi'  her  bein'  old  and  doddery 
'cause  she  wure  cheap.  So  he  says, 
"  Betsy,  read  that,"  and  he  show  her 
the  paper.  "Shall  us  try  it?"  The 
old  'ooman  did  n't  like  to  say  "  no," 
though  she  had  her  doubts.  So  the 
farmer  digged  a  hole  in  his  garden,  an' 
the  old  'ooman  wropped  the  beef  up  in 
an  oil-cloth  what  belonged  to  her  parler 
table,  and  put  one  o'  her  flanney  petti- 
coats round  it  all,  to  be  quite  safe,  an' 
they  buried   it. 

' "  I  reckon  that  '11  keep  fresh  till 
doomsday,"  said  the  farmer,  quite 
proud. 

180 


A   Pious   Fraud 

'  "  Next  Sunday  's  long  enough  for 
we,"  grunted  the  old  'ooman,  for  she 
know'd  sh  'd  want  her  flanney  petticoat 
back  by  then,  not  havin'  more  than  two 
anyway. 

'  And  so  it  might,  but  for  one  thing, 
which  both  on  'em  forgot.  They  forgot 
the  old  retriever  dog  what  was  a-watch- 
ing  'em  over  the  wall  all  the  time.  That 
dog  went  about  lookin'  as  tho'  butter 
would  n't  melt  in  his  mouth,  till  it  come 
dark,  an'  then  the  old  thief  jumped  in 
among  the  gooseberry  bushes,  an'  went 
to  work.  He  wure  there  all  night;  an' 
farmer  as  he  went  to  bed  wondered  why 
Rover  were  so  quiet,  for  gin'rally  he 
wure  a  dog  as  barked  a  lot  o'  nights. 
An'  what 's  more,  the  old  dog  raked  the 
earth  all  down  careful  agen  when  he  'd 
done,  as  though  he  understood  the  joke  ; 
so  that  farmer  and  Betsy  they  did  n't 
suspect  nothin',  tho'  I  don't  doubt  the 
dog  wure  a-winking  at  'em  all  the  time. 
When  the  praicher  come  to  dinner  that 
nex'  Sunday,  he  'ad  to  be  content  wi' 
eggs.      The    farmer    explained    as   the 

181 


Thro'   Lattice- Windows 

reason  why  he  'ad  n't  got  no  beef  was 
that  the  foot-an '-mouth  disease  was  about 
awful.' 

'  I  guess  he  shot  that  dog,'  said  Crad- 
dock,  with  a  grin. 

'  Not  he.  He  sort  o'  respeckit  the 
dog  for  'aving  got  the  better  o'  'im, 
though  it  wure  a  long  time  before  they 
was  on  speakin'  terms  agen.  Well,  I 
must  be  goin'.' 

'  If  you  meet  Davy  Lumsden  goin' 
home,  you  might  tell  him  that  story. 
Mayhap  it  'ud  do  him  good.  He  owes 
me  for  some  mendin',  an'  I  can't  get 
nothin'  out  o'  him.  His  money '11  be 
like  that  jint  —  saved  up  for  somebody 
else  to  steal,  if  he  don't  mind.' 

'  I  '11  give  'im  a  hint,'  said  Johnny 
solemnly. 

As  Johnny  climbed  the  hill  out  of 
Barford,  he  saw  the  tall  form  of  Lums- 
den ahead  of  him.  Lumsden  had  a 
heavy  brown  paper  parcel,  whose  weight 
seemed  to  try  him  a  little.  He  changed 
the  parcel  from  hand  to  hand  repeatedly, 
and  at  length  sat  down  on  the  crest  of 

182 


A   Pious  Fraud 

the  hill,  wiping  his  forehead  with  a  red 
handkerchief.  It  was  here  that  Johnny 
caught  him  up. 

'What  hav'  ee  got  there,  Davy?  '  said 
Johnny. 

'  Somethin'  you  won't  never  guess.' 

'  'T  ain't  sugar,  an'  it  ain't  salt,'  said 
Johnny  meditatively.  '  An'  by  the 
shape  o'  it  it  ain't  ironmongery,  an'  it 
ain't  grocery.     Let  me  feel  of  it.' 

'  Why,'  he  exclaimed,  '  't  is  as  heavy  as 
a  'ouse.     Sure,  Davy,  it  ain't  books  ? ' 

1  Books  it  is,'  said  Davy. 

'  Books  may  be  for  the  childer  in  the 
school? ' 

'  No,  't  aint     'T  is  poetry.' 

'  Well,  I  never  know'd  as  poetry  wure 
so  heavy.  An'  I  never  know'd  as  you 
cared  for  poetry,  Davy.' 

'No  more  I  don't.  Tis  for  Benjy. 
Fact  is,  't  is  Benjy's  own  poetry.' 

A  light  began  to  break  on  Johnny. 
Benjy  was  Lumsden's  grandson,  who 
had  long  been  engaged  in  making  a 
painful  exit  from  the  world  by  con- 
sumption.    It   was  generally   known   in 

183 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

Plumridge  Green  that  Benjy  was  a  poet. 
Even  Mr.  Shannon  had  admitted  that 
there  was  merit  in  the  lines  which  he 
had  written  for  the  funeral  card  of 
young  Penrose,  and  which  began : 

'  He  's  gone  because  he  could  n't  no  more  stay, 
He  's  gone  out  of  earth's  night  to  find  heaven's 
day.' 

Poor  Benjy  had  already  been  a  year 
dying,  and  as  he  lay  against  the  window, 
and  looked  out  on  the  green  world,  his 
one  occupation  had  been  to  write  verses, 
moulded  on  the  only  model  he  knew, 
which  was  the  chapel  hymn-book. 

'  You  don't  mean  to  say  as  you  've 
gone  an'  prented  'em?  '  said  Johnny. 

'  I  hev','  said  Davy,  grimly. 

'  Not  in  a  book,  Davy?  ' 

'  In  a  book,  sure  enough,  Johnny. 
These  is  them.  There 's  two  hundred 
an'  fifty  on  'em.  Bambridge,  the  prenter, 
would  n't  prent  less,  nohow.' 

'  But  what  be  'ee  goin'  to  do  wi'  'em, 
Davy?' 

'  That 's  the  point,'  said  Davy,  shaking 
184 


A   Pious   Fraud 

his  grey  head,  '  an'  since  you  Ve  spoke, 
I  '11  tell  'ee  all  about  it. 

'  'T  is  this  way.  Benjy,  since  he  hev' 
been  took  worse,  hev'  been  powerful  set 
on  gettin'  these  po-ums  o'  his  prented. 
He  says,  says  'ee,  "  I  want  to  see  'em 
in  prent,  grandfur,  all  together,  like  Dr. 
Watts'  hymns.  There's  a  many  poets 
as  hev'  died,  an'  been  famous  arter  they 
was  dead.  But  it  stands  to  reason  as 
you  can't  be  famous  when  you  're  dead 
onless  you  do  leave  your  po-ums  all 
nicely  prented.  I  want  'em  all  bound 
up  nice,  an'  on  the  back  o'  'em  these 
words :  The  Works  of  Benjamin  Lums- 
den,  Poet,  of  Plumridge  Green." 

'That  sounds  all  right,'  said  Johnny. 
'People  couldn't  help  a  buyin'  a  book 
wi'  that  upon  it.' 

'  So  Benjy  said.  He  worked  it  out 
careful  on  a  slate.  He  made  out  as 
every  man  and  woman  and  child  in 
Plumridge  Green  'ud  want  a  copy,  an' 
'ud  pay  a  shillin'  for  it,  free  an'  glad. 
Calculating  upon  that  basis,  he  said,  as 
there  'ud  be  enough  to  pay  Bambridge 

185 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

for  prenting  'em,  an'  leave  a  few  pund 
over  to  berry  'im  with  respectable,  as  a 
poet  ought  to  be  berried.  An'  he  wure 
likewise  particerlar  that  a  copy  of  the 
book  should  be  put  in  the  coffin  wi'  'im, 
and  that  on  his  gravestone  there  should 
be  wrote,  "  Here  lieth  Benjamin  Lums- 
den  of  Plumridge  Green,  Poet." 

'  It  would  n't  do,  I  s'pose,'  said  Johnny 
meditatively,  '  to  put  that  there  tomb- 
stone up  afore  he  wure  dead,  wi'  them 
words  on  it  ?  I  was  thinkin'  that  it 
'ud  sort  o'  adverteese  the  book.' 

'Well,  he  mightn't  like  it,  if  he 
know'd,'  said  Davy  anxiously.  '  Not 
but  what  that  is  a  good  idea  o'  yours, 
Johnny.' 

'  You  're  welcome  to  it,  Davy,'  said 
Johnny,  magnanimously.  '  I  was  think- 
in'  Benjy  'ud  be  sure  o'  havin'  his  tomb- 
stone that  way,  an'  he  might  n't  the 
other  way.' 

'  I  ain't  the  man  to  cheat  Benjy  of  his 
tombstone,  and  that  you  know,'  said 
Davy  severely. 

'  I  know  you  ain't,  Davy.  You  'd 
186 


A   Pious   Fraud 

raise  it  by  subscription  first,  would  n't 
'ee,  Davy?  I  've  heared  o'  lots  o'  poets 
as  they  're  subscribed  for  when  they 
was  dead.' 

'  'T  ain't  the  tombstone  as  troubles 
me.'  went  on  Davy  serenely,  '  't  is  this 
'ere  book.  I  '11  allow  that  when  Benjy 
first  worked  it  all  out  on  the  slate  I  was 
took  with  the  notion  —  commercially 
speakin'.  I  thought  as  it  might  be 
made  to  pay.  But  that  Bambridge,  he 
hev'  discouraged  me.  He  says  as  he 
don't  see  how  any  one  's  goin'  to  buy 
the  book.  Now,  Benjy 's  keen  on  the 
book  bein'  sold,  an'  if  it  ain't  sold  he  '11 
be  more  miserable  than  if  it  wure  n't 
prented.' 

'  I  've  always  heard  as  poets  was 
curous  folk.  I  've  had  a  feel  o'  bein' 
took  that  way  myself,'  said  Johnny. 
'  But,'  he  added,  with  great  gravity,  '  I 
resisted  it,  Davy,  I   resisted.' 

'  'T  ain't  no  sort  o'  good  talkin'  to 
you,  Johnny.  You  've  got  a  aggravatin' 
way  o'  interruptin',  and  makin'  me  for- 
get my  thoughts  jest  when  I  'd  get  the 

187 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

hang  on  'em,  so  to  speak.  Now  what 
was  I  a-sayin'  of  ? ' 

'  Why,  about  gettin'  'em  sold,  —  Ben- 
jy's  books,  you  know.' 

'  Ah,  to  be  sure,'  said  Davy,  with  an 
air  of  relief.  '  Now,  I  've  got  an  idea, 
Johnny,  if  so  be  as  you  '11  help  me.' 

'Well,  let's  hear  it,' said  Johnny,  sit- 
ing down  upon  the  parcel  of  books, 
which  lay  conveniently  on  the  road. 

'  'T  is  this,  Johnny.  I  don't  see  no- 
how what 's  to  be  done  wi'  these  blamed 
books  o'  Benjy's,  but  I  want  to  please 
the  poor  lad.  I  doubt  I  've  been  a  fool 
in  getting  'em  prented,  but  Benjy,  he 
looked  so  whisht,  an'  begged  so  hard, 
that  I  could  n't  say  him  no.  Six  pund 
ten  I  hev'  paid  Bambridge  for  prentin' 
o'  'em,  an'  that 's  an  awful  lot  o'  money 
to  lose,  Johnny.' 

'Tis  so,'  said  Johnny.  'Eh,  but  it 
must  ha'  hurt  'ee  to  part  wi'  so  much.' 

'  It  did,'  said  Davy.  '  You  never  spoke 
a  truer  word.  But  't  were  for  the  lad's 
sake,  an'  when  anybody 's  dyin',  you 
somehow  do  feel  different  about  things.' 

188 


A  Pious   Fraud 

'  Well,  now,  what  I  were  a  thinking 
was  this.  Suppose  you,  an'  Baxter,  an' 
Gill,  an'  the  rest  o'  you,  do  come  in  one 
arter  another,  an'  say,  "  We  've  heard  as 
Benjy's  po-ums  is  prented,  and  we  wants 
a  copy."  You  can  put  down  a  shillin' 
on  the  table,  each  on  you,  where  Benjy 
can  see  it,  an'  I  '11  give  it  back  to  'ee  at 
the  door.  'T  is  a  game  as  might  be  kep' 
up  till  all  they  books  was  gone,  you 
sayin'  that  other  folk  has  sent  you,  an' 
the  whole  place  wanted  'em.  It  'ud 
kind  o'  cheer  up  Benjy,  and  maybe  he  'd 
die  more  easier.' 

'  But  maybe  you  would  n't  give  me 
that  shillin'  back  agen,'  said  Johnny 
slyly.  '  It  'ud  hurt  'ee  dreadful  to  do 
it,  Davy.' 

'  Honour  bright,'  said  Davy  earnestly. 
'  Benjy's  all  I  've  got  left,  an'  I  want  'im 
to  die  happy.' 

'  Well,'  said  Johnny,  '  't  is  a  sort  o' 
pious  fraud,  but  p'raps  God  'ull  forgive 
it  we,  for  Benjy's  sake.  I  don't  think 
as  Gill  will  take  the  shillin'  back,  an'  I 
know  I  won't.     Otherwise,  't  is  a  good 

189 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

idea,  Davy,  an'  if  't  will  help  Benjy  to  die 
more  easier  I  don't  mind  a  tryin'  it.' 

It  was  so  arranged  between  the  two 
old  men,  and  that  very  night  the  pious 
fraud  was  put  into  operation.  Johnny 
Button  was  the  first  to  come,  and  gave 
a  great  air  of  reality  to  the  proceedings 
by  the  eager  manner  in  which  he  opened 
Benjy's  book,  and  led  Benjy  to  describe 
the  circumstances  under  which  this  or 
that  poem  was  composed. 

1  It  comes  to  me  sudden-like,'  said  the 
poor  boy,  as  he  sat  up  in  his  bed  under 
the  window,  his  pale  face  touched  with 
a  little  flame  of  modest  pride.  '  I  hear 
the  lark  a-singing,  an'  I  see  the  hedges 
gettin'  white,  an'  I  think  how  as  I  shan't 
see  'em  much  longer,  an'  then  I  wants 
to  write  somethin'.' 

'  Ah,'  said  Johnny  sympathetically, 
'  I  've  been  took  that  way  myself,  but  I 
resisted.' 

'  So  did  I,  at  first,'  said  Benjy  simply. 
'  I  thought  as  it  were  n't  possible  for  me 
to  put  down  what  I  felt.  But  after  a 
while  the  knack  o'  it  came  to  me,  an'  it 

190 


A  Pious   Fraud 

made  me  happy  to  do  it.  There  's  them 
lines  about  Will  Penrose,  "  He  's  gone 
out  of  earth's  night  to  find  heaven's 
day,"  —  I  can  mind  I  cried  when  I  wrote 
'em  —  sort  o'  happy  cryin',  you  know, 
thinkin'  that  I  was  a-goin'  too.' 

Lumsden's  living-room  was  full  of 
visitors  that  night.  Benjy's  book  was 
handed  from  one  to  another  in  silent 
wonder.  Baxter  made  no  pretence  of 
hiding  his  tears,  for  he  had  found  at 
page  sixteen  some  memorial  lines  on  a 
'Child  Who  Died  Young,'  and  Benjy 
confessed  that  it  was  little  Elsie  Baxter 
he  was  thinking  of  when  he  wrote  them. 

'  I  '11  ha'  six  o'  they  books,  Davy,'  said 
Baxter,  '  an'  there  's  my  six  shillens.' 

Gill,  in  his  simple  fashion,  prayed  with 
Benjy,  and  so,  after  all,  there  was  a 
thread  of  true  piety  woven  into  the 
fraud.  The  piece  Gill  liked  best  was 
some  lines  upon  the  Cross,  which  he 
said  he  knew  a  tune  as  'ud  fit,  and  might 
be  taught  the  childer  in  the  school. 
In  fact  he  produced  his  tuning-fork,  and 
struck  the  tune  there  and  then,  saying, 
191 


Thro'    Lattice-Windows 

'Listen  to  this,  my  sonny.  It  do  fit  it 
beautiful ;  an'  maybe  't  will  help  'ee  to 
die,  knowin'  when  you  're  a-singin'  up 
there  wi'  God,  we  shall  be  a-singin'  down 
here  what  you  did  write.' 

In  fact,  it  must  be  confessed  that  the 
brilliant  fraud  devised  by  the  genius  of 
Davy  Lumsden  never  came  off.  Johnny 
himself  felt,  after  that  night  with  Benjy, 
that  he  could  not  very  well  bring  him- 
self to  cheat  a  dying  boy,  even  with  the 
most  benevolent  intentions.  Nor  was 
there  any  need.  The  news  of  Benjy's 
book  spread  through  the  village,  and 
there  were  very  few  persons  who  did  not 
want  to  possess  a  copy. 

Every  evening,  when  work  was  over, 
people  came  to  Davy's  door  asking  for 
Benjy's  book.  The  news  of  it  spread 
as  far  as  Barford,  and  the  crowning 
joy  came  when  the  '  Barford  Recorder ' 
had  a  paragraph  about  it,  and  drew  a 
pathetic  picture  of  the  dying  poet,  with 
certain  fine  literary  allusions  to  some 
one  called  John  Keats,  whose  name  was 
quite  unknown  at  Plumridge  Green. 

192 


A  Pious   Fraud 

The  night  on  which  the  '  Barford 
Recorder  '  reached  Lumsden's  cottage, 
Benjy  was  taken  much  worse.  But  to- 
ward midnight  he  rallied  a  good  deal, 
and  Davy  was  content  to  think  him 
about  as  usual. 

'  Gran'fur,'  he  said,  '  is  they  all  sold 
yet?' 

'  Most  all,'  said  Davy.  '  Maybe  there  's 
a  dozen  left,  sonny.' 

'  Draw  the  table  out,  and  let  me  see 
the  money.' 

The  table  was  pushed  against  his  bed, 
and  the  boy  counted  over  the  coins  with 
delighted  fingers. 

'  'T  is  wonderful,  ain't  it,  gran'fur,  to 
think  of  all  this  money  bein'  earned  out 
o'  my  little  book.  But  I  said  as  it  'ud 
be  so,  did  n't  I?  ' 

'  You  did,  my  sonny.' 

'  An'  you  won't  lose  nothin'  by  it,  will 
you,  gran'fur?  An'  I  shall  get  my 
tombstone,  an'  on  it  you  will  put  in 
black  letters,  "  Here  lieth  Benjamin 
Lumsden,  of  Plumridge  Green,  Poet." 
Well,  I  don't  mind  dyin'  now.' 
12  t93 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

The  old  man's  mouth  quivered. 

'  Benjy,'  he  said,  '  you  shall  hev'  the 
finest  tombstone  as  was  ever  seen  put 
over  'ee.' 

'  But  I  don't  want  it  to  cost  you 
nothin',  gran'fur.  I  've  cost  'ee  a  lot 
a'ready,  bein'  ill  so  long.' 

The  old  man's  heart  suddenly  melted. 
He  realised  that  he  was  about  to  be  left 
alone. 

'  Benjy,  boy,'  he  said  in  a  broken 
voice,  '  I  'd  give  all  I  've  got  rather  than 
lose  'ee.     I  would,  indeed.' 

The  boy  lay  quite  quiet  for  five 
minutes  after  that  speech,  with  a  glow 
of  joy  on  his  face. 

1  Gran'fur,'  he  said  at  last,  '  't  is 
better  for  me  to  go,  for  I  don't 
think  as  I  could  write  another  book. 
An'  I  've  been  a  great  expense  .  .  . 
so  long  ...  an'  you  not  well-off,  as 
you  've  often  said.  You  'd  use  to 
blame  me  because  I  did  n't  earn  noth- 
in', an'  that's  why  I'm  so  glad  I've 
earned  somethin'  before  I  died.  Give 
me    the   book    again,    and    the    paper, 

194 


A   Pious   Fraud 

and  draw  up  the  blind,  so  as  I  can  see 
the  moon  a-shinin'.' 

The  old  man  obeyed  without  a  word. 
He  was  heart-sick  with  reproach.  He 
turned  as  he  left  the  room  to  take  a  last 
look  at  Benjy. 

The  boy  lay  back  on  his  pillows 
under  the  window,  and  the  moon  put  a 
coverlet  of  silver  over  him  ;  in  his  hand 
he  held  the  '  Works  of  Benjamin  Lums- 
den,  Poet,'  and  on  the  pillow  beside  him 
lay  the  paper  which  had  praised  him. 

He  had  not  moved  in  the  morning. 
The  only  difference  was  that  the  sun  had 
cast  a  brocade  of  gold  across  the  lad, 
and  the  whiteness  of  the  moonlight  had 
passed  into  his  face. 


195 


XI 

THE    EXTRAVAGANCE   OF 
SOLOMON    GILL 

I  WOULD  N'T  like  to  say  as  it 
were  wicked,'  remarked  old  David 
Lumsden  as  he  met  Johnny  Button 
crossing  Plumridge  Green,  '  but  I  'm 
bound  to  say  as  it  ain't  fittin'.' 

Lumsden  and  Button  were  the  two 
old  men  who  met  young  Potterbee  on 
the  night  he  preached  his  first  sermon, 
and  they  were  now  engaged  in  discus- 
sing the  conduct  of  Solomon  Gill. 

'  To  my  knowledge,  Gill  have  been 
hard  put  to  it  this  winter  a'ready, '  he 
continued,  '  an'  he  ain't  so  young  as  he 
were.  He  ought  to  be  a-savin'  some- 
thin',  he  did.  But  you  can't  move  Gill 
when  he  have  made  up  his  mind. 
He  've  giv'  that  missionary  supper  this 
thirty  year,  an'  't  is  my  belief  that  if  he 

196 


The  Extravagance  of  Solomon  Gill 

know'd  he  'd  go  scat  to-morrow  morn, 
he  'd  spend  his  last  penny  on  it. ' 

Johnny  Button  indulged  in  a  snigger, 
which  was  instantly  suppressed.  He 
was  not  by  nature  a  humorous  man, 
but  he  had  occasional  moments  when, 
as  he  said,  '  things  came  to  him,  funny- 
like. ' 

The  '  thing '  that  had  come  to  him  at 
this  moment  was  a  very  old  story  about 
Lumsden.  It  was  said  that  Lumsden 
had  once  been  a  '  chief  man  '  in  a 
neighbouring  chapel,  where  upon  a  cer- 
tain occasion  it  had  been  necessary  to 
find  a  home  for  a  '  supply. '  No  one 
had  felt  equal  to  the  honour,  and  there 
was  a  prolonged  discussion  on  the  sub- 
ject, which  ended  in  Lumsden  offering 
to  submit  to  the  inconvenience  if  the 
people  would  pay  the  costs  which  he 
incurred.  This  was  agreed  upon,  and 
Lumsden  received  much  praise  for  his 
public-spirited  conduct. 

'  You  'd  like  him  to  be  treated  respect- 
able? '  he  was  reported  to  have  said. 

The  people  agreed  that  they  would. 
197 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

'  And  waited  on  proper  ?  If  we  be 
poor,  't  is  no  cause  why  we  should  be 
looked  down  upon. ' 

This  also  was  felt  to  be  an  admirable 
sentiment,  which  did  Lumsden  honour. 

'They  "supplies"  what  come  from 
the  collidge  is  used  to  luxury,'  he  con- 
tinued. '  'T  is  said  they  do  moastly 
sleep  on  feather  beds,  and  stay  with 
gentle-foak  when  they  do  go  to  praich. 
They  do  have  four  meals  a  day  reg'lar, 
and  the  collidge  is  a  kind  o'  palace.  I 
know  a  man  as  seed  it,  and  he  told  me. ' 

These  facts  produced  consternation. 
Such  grandeur  in  connection  with  '  sup- 
plies '  had  not  been  dreamed  of. 

'  We  wonder  as  you  dare  attempt  it. 
'Twill  be  dreadful  tryin'  for  'ee  to 
keep  it  up  proper  from  Saturday  night 
to  Monday  morning.  And  very  like 
he  '11  stay  to  dinner  Monday  too.  They 
moastly  does. ' 

'You  leave  that  to  me,'  Lumsden 
replied.      '  I  '11  not  disgrace  ye. ' 

Lumsden  certainly  did  not  disgrace 
them.      He  had  long  felt  that   his   cot- 

198 


The  Extravagance  of  Solomon  Gill 

tage  needed  papering,  and  manifestly 
this  was  the  predestined  hour  for  the 
operation.  A  fresh  coat  of  whitewash 
is  known  to  be  a  good  thing  for  health, 
and  when  you  are  whitewashing  one 
room  you  may  as  well  do  the  whole 
house.  It  is  likewise  an  accepted 
axiom  that  cleanliness  is  next  to  god- 
liness, and  when  a  charwoman  costs 
only  one-and-sixpence  per  day,  no  one 
would  grudge  that  the  cottage  should 
be  thoroughly  scrubbed.  As  for  slight 
repairs  to  a  window  that  would  not 
open,  and  a  bedroom  door  that  would 
not  shut,  these  were  matters  which 
Lumsden  could  do  himself,  and  charge 
for  at  a  purely  nominal  rate.  The  end 
of  the  affair  was  that  Lumsden  got  his 
cottage  completely  repaired  at  the  cost 
of  the  Bethesda  folk,  besides  laying  in 
so  much  food  for  the  '  supply '  that  it 
was  commonly  estimated  that  he  didn't 
need  to  buy  anything  more  for  a  week. 
Such  was  the  philanthropy  of  David 
Lumsden.  Johnny  Button  happened  to 
think  of  it  when  he  heard  Lumsden  de- 

199 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

nounce    the   extravagance    of    Solomon 
Gill,  and  that  was  why  he  sniggered. 

'There's  no  call  to  laugh,'  said 
Lumsden  severely. 

'  I  was  a-thinkin'  o'  somethin','  said 
Button  meekly.  '  Foaks  can't  help 
their  thoughts. ' 

'  An'  I  'm  a-thinkin'  of  somethin' 
too,'  said  Lumsden.  '  I  'm  a-thinkin' 
what  '11  become  o'  Gill  if  that  rheuma- 
tis  of  his  gets  worse.  I  '11  warrant  he 
ain't  saved  a  penny  agenst  a  rainy  day. ' 

'  Not  like  you,  eh  ?  ' 

'  I  should  think  not  indeed.  Foaks 
like  Gill  thinks  as  Providence  hasn't 
nothin'  else  to  do  but  pay  their  debts 
for  'em.  I  'd  rather  pay  my  own,  in 
case  Providence  should  n't  happen  to 
remember. ' 

The  two  old  men  strolled  across  to 
the  chapel,  whose  doors  stood  wide 
open,  for  Roach,  the  carpenter,  was 
busy  putting  up  the  platform  for  the 
missionary  meeting.  Baxter,  the  wheel- 
wright, was  already  there,  under  pre- 
tence of  helping  him.     They  also  were 

200 


The   Extravagance  of  Solomon  Gill 

engaged  in  discussing  Solomon  Gill, 
but  from  another  point  of  view. 

'He's  about  done,  is  Gill,'  said 
Roach,  as  he  sat  down  to  rest  on  a 
trestle.  '  He  've  struck  the  tune 
wrong  these  two  Sundays  runnin'. 
My  opeenion  is  as  the  time's  come 
when  we  should  have  an  orgin. ' 

'I  don't  hold  with  orgins,  myself,' 
said  Baxter. 

'  That 's  'cause  you  don't  know  no 
better,'  said  Roach.  '  I  '11  allow  they 
ain't  much  good  when  you  do  twidle- 
twidle  'em,  like  that  chap  do  down  to 
Barford  Church.  You  do  want  to  bang 
'em  and  whack  'em,  and  then  they  're 
grand.  I  've  heer'd  a  horgin  as  shook 
the  winders. ' 

'  Where  might  that  be?  '  said  Johnny 
Button,  whose  knowledge  of  music  was 
supposed  to  be  profound,  owing  to  the 
circumstance  that  he  had  once  been 
known  to  play  the  Old  Hundred  on 
his  flute  without  a  single  error  of  any 
importance. 

'  Down  Belchester  way,'  said  Roach. 

20I 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

'  It  were  in  a  new  chapel  they  'd  put 
up,  an'  it  were  on  the  opening  day. 
It  were  a  chap  from  Belchester  as  come 
over  an'  played.  My!  You  should  ha' 
seed  him!  When  he  couldn't  get  no 
more  sound  out  o'  the  top  part  o'  her, 
he  jest  stood  up,  an'  jumped  like  mad 
on  them  things  they  calls  the  pedals, 
like  a  jumpin'  on  her  toes,  so  to  speak, 
an'  you  should  ha'  heard  'er  roar  !  ' 

'I  don't  like  music  like  that,'  said 
Button  critically,  as  became  a  master 
of  the  flute.  '  I  like  it  soft,  like  birds 
a-singin'. ' 

'  Well,  an'  he  played  her  soft  too,  if 
it  comes  to  that.  When  he  'd  made 
her  roar,  he  made  her  whisper,  so  to 
speak.      I  seed  foak  a-cryin'.      I  did. ' 

'  I  ain't  goin'  to  say  a  word  agenst 
Gill,'  said  Baxter.  '  I  don't  say  as  I  'd 
stand  out  on  princerple  agenst  one  o' 
them  little  orgins  —  harmonys  they 
calls  'em.  They  don't  shake  no  win- 
ders, an'  you  can  sing  to  'em.  But 
Gill's  good  enough  for  me.  There 
ain't  a  better  man  hereabout,  an'  when 

202 


The  Extravagance  of  Solomon  Gill 

the  sermon  's  a  bit  poorish,  I  take  a 
look  at  Gill  all  a-beamin'  in  his  pew, 
an'  someway  I  feel  better  for  it  —  feel 
as  if  'twere  a  middlin'  good  sermon 
after  all.' 

'  Be  you  goin'  to  Gill's  supper  to- 
night ?  '  interposed  Lumsden,  who  was 
anxious  to  lead  the  conversation  back 
to  a  theme  on  which  he  was  better 
qualified  to  offer  an  opinion. 

'  I  be,'  said  Baxter,  '  an'  proud  to  go. 
Wouldn't  miss  it  nohow.' 

'  Well,  what  I  've  been  a-sayin'  to 
Johnny  Button  is  jest  this,'  said  Lums- 
den oracularly,  '  that  I  don't  think  we 
ought  to  encourage  Gill  in  any  sich 
extravagance.  I  don't  believe  as  he 
can  afford  it,  an'  he  ought  n't  to  do  it.' 

'  Don't  you  worry  about  Gill,'  said 
Baxter,  with  a  sardonic  smile.  '  There  's 
some  foak  as  finds  more  pleasure  in 
givin'  than  what  they  does  in  savin'. 
'T  is  n't  every  one  as  looks  as  long  at  a 
ha'peny  as  you  do,  Davy. ' 

'  An'  there  's  some  foak  as  lives  long 
enough  to  wish  they'd  got  a  ha'penny 

203 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

to  look  at,'  retorted  Lumsden.  '  'T  is 
a  poor  lookout  when  you  're  nigh  an 
seventy,  an'  got  the  rheumatis  bad,  to 
think  o'  all  the  money  you  've  give  to 
them  missionaries  what  never  had  no 
rheumatis. ' 

'  I  don't  see  mysel'  what  the  rheuma- 
tis has  to  do  wi'  it,'  said  Baxter.  '  If 
they  missionaries  don't  have  the  rheu- 
matis, they  has  things  which  is  a  hun- 
dred times  as  bad.  There  's  Widow 
Penrose's  boy  down  to  St.  Colam,  he 
went  for  a  missionary,  and  everybody 
knows  as  he  come  home  as  yellow  as  a 
guinea,  and  she's  a-wearin'  black  for 
him  still.' 

'Very  like,'  said  Lumsden,  'very 
like.  That  ain't  my  point.  My  point 
is  that  there  ain't  no  call  for  Gill  to 
starve  hisself  to  feed  foak  what 's  better 
fed  nor  what  he  is.  I  don't  believe  in 
payin'  men  to  put  their  heads  in  the 
lion's  mouth,  neither.  Not  that  there  's 
much  o'  that.  They  missionaries  knows 
how  to  take  care  o'  theirselves,  you 
may  depend. ' 

204 


The   Extravagance  of  Solomon  Gill 

Lumsden  and  Johnny  Button  strolled 
away,  taking  the  path  across  the  Green 
which  led  them  out  on  the  high  road, 
past  Gill's  cottage. 

'You  see,'  said  Lumsden,  pointing 
ironically  to  the  smoke  that  was  rising 
from  Gill's  chimney,  '  he's  at  it  a'ready. 
Boilin'  and  bakin'  like  mad,  I  '11  be 
bound.  You  take  warnin',  Johnny,  and 
don't  you  go  and  spend  your  substance 
in  riotous  livin'  like  to  'im,  for  I  '11 
warn  'ee,  Johnny,  though  I  be  your 
freend,  that  I  won't  help  'ee,  when  ye 
comes  to  the  husks  which  the  swine 
do  eat. ' 

'I  know  ye  wouldn't,  Davy,'  said 
Johnny  meekly.      '  No,  not  a  stiver. ' 

'  I  might  want  to,  ye  know, '  said 
Davy,  by  way  of  vindicating  his  better 
nature.  There  were  times  when  he  half 
suspected  that  Johnny  made  fun  of  him. 

'  Ah,  but  ye  would  n't,'  said  Johnny. 
'  Not  if  ye  wanted  never  so.  I  've 
know'd  ye  want  to  put  sixpence  in  the 
plate  many  a  time,  Davy,  but  ye  never 
did,    did  ye?     An'    I  've  said   many  a 

205 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

time,  when  I  've  seed  'ee  put  a  ha'penny 
in,  "Well,  Davy  did  want  to  put  a  six- 
pence in  that  time,  but  maybe  he  did  n't 
want  hard  enough."  It  takes  a  power- 
ful lot  o'  wanting  to  git  as  high  as  six- 
pence, don't  it,  Davy?' 

'  It  do,'  said  Davy  solemnly.  'I'll 
say  this  for  mysel',  I  allers  takes  a  six- 
pence with  me  when  I  goes  to  meetin'. ' 

'  An'  can't  never  get  it  put  in.  Eh, 
but  that  must  be  a  trial  to  'ee,  Davy. ' 

'  'T  is  so,  Johnny,  in  a  way  o'  speak- 
ing. Some  on  us  is  tried  one  way,  and 
some  on  us  another.  It  all  comes  of 
bein'  a  man  with  a  far-seein'  mind, 
Johnny. ' 

'  I  always  know'd  you  'd  that  sort  o' 
mind,  Davy.  You  've  been  famous  for 
that  sort  o'  mind  iver  since  you  corned 
among  we.  Kind  o'  mind  that  acts  on 
princerple,  ain't  it,  Davy?  ' 

'  That  's  it,  Johnny.  'T  is  princerple 
what  keeps  me  from  givin'.  I  says  to 
mysel',  says  I,  "'T ain't  'cordin'  to 
princerple  to  give  your  'ard-earned 
money  to  them  what  wears  better  coats 

206 


The  Extravagance  of  Solomon  Gill 

nor  what  you  do."  Now  Gill  ain't  got 
no  princerple.  He  ain't  gifted  with  a 
far  seein'  mind.  He  'd  give  his  shirt 
away  if  he  felt  like  it,  and  niver  ask 
whether  he'd  got  another  at  home  in 
the  drawer. ' 

'Ah,  'tis  so,'  said  Johnny,  with  an 
air  of  profound  commiseration.  '  An' 
as  for  them  husks  you  was  a-speakin* 
of,  I  dare  say  the  pigs  felt,  when  that 
there  prodigal  come  among  'em,  that 
on  princerple  they  did  n't  ought  to  let 
'im  have  any.  'Tis  a  queer  thing  is 
princerple ! ' 

Davy  glanced  at  Johnny  suspiciously, 
but  Johnny  had  the  art  of  looking  quite 
impenetrable  when  he  pleased.  He 
wore  just  now  the  air  of  a  man  who  was 
merely  uttering  a  few  pious  medita- 
tions in  a  lonely  place,  where  no  one 
could  overhear  him. 

Solomon  Gill's  supper  that  night  was 
one  of  unusual  splendour.  His  cottage 
was  a  three-roomed  one,  with  a  lean-to 
scullery  at  the  back,  for  Gill  was  a 
bachelor,  and  needed  little  accommoda- 

207 


Thro'   Lattice- Windows 

tion.  As  a  rule  he  did  his  own  clean- 
ing and  cooking,  but  on  this  great 
annual  occasion  he  got  old  Mrs.  Maddi- 
son  to  come  in  and  help  him,  and  Mrs. 
Maddison's  bread  was  a  thing  of  renown 
at  Plumridge  Green. 

The  brick  floor  of  the  living-room 
had  been  scrubbed  till  it  had  a  ruddy 
polish;  the  common  black  handled 
knives  glittered  like  silver,  and  the 
coarse  table-cloth  was  of  princely  white- 
ness. On  the  table  was  a  huge  loaf  of 
home-baked  bread,  a  loin  of  pork  roasted 
to  a  turn,  a  jug  of  very  small  beer  for 
those  who  had  not  learned  the  superi- 
ority of  tea,  and  an  apple-pie,  flanked 
by  a  jug  of  fresh  cream.  But  the  place 
of  honour  was  given  to  a  missionary- 
box  of  the  largest  attainable  dimensions, 
which  stood  upon  a  basin  turned  the 
wrong  side  up,  between  the  pork  and 
the  apple-pie. 

'  Ye '11  make  yourselves  kindly  wel- 
come,' said  Gill,  as  he  shook  hands 
with  the  deputation  from  Barford, 
which    consisted  of  old  Mr.    Shannon, 

208 


The   Extravagance  of  Solomon  Gill 

and  a  sallow  missionary  who  had  been 
astonishing  an  audience  at  the  chapel 
for  the  last  hour,  with  extraordinary 
stories  of  the  work  of  Christ  in  Mada- 
gascar. Baxter,  and  Button,  and  three 
or  four  of  the  chapel  worthies  stood 
modestly  near  the  door  till  the  deputa- 
tion was  seated.  They  then  took  their 
places  on  a  plank,  insecurely  supported 
by  two  empty  soap-boxes,  and  held  an 
animated  conversation  with  each  other 
by  means  of  nods  and  nudges. 

And  I,  who  witnessed  it,  can  aver 
that  it  was  a  sight  to  see  old  Solomon 
Gill  rise  solemnly  to  ask  a  blessing. 
He  had  a  noble  head,  with  a  high,  bald 
forehead,  such  as  I  have  often  seen 
since  in  the  portraits  of  great  ecclesi- 
astics, which  the  famous  masters  of  a 
great  age  of  painting  have  bequeathed  to 
us.  He  wore  his  ploughman's  smock, 
which  one  might  easily  have  mistaken 
for  the  cassock  of  a  saint,  so  fair  and 
white  was  it.  And  in  that  wrinkled 
face  of  his  there  was  a  true  light  of 
sainthood,  a  softened  glow  of  great 
'4  209 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

peace,  which  is  found  only  on  the  faces 
of  those  who  are  much  alone  with  God. 

'  We  thank  Thee,  who  hast  given  us 
richly  all  things  to  enjoy,'  said  the  old 
man  solemnly. 

I  have  sometimes  thought  that  that 
thanksgiving  might  have  better  suited 
the  tables  of  the  rich ;  but  I  have  never 
heard  it  there.  I  only  heard  it  once; 
and  it  was  upon  the  lips  of  an  old 
ploughman,  who  earned  from  nine  to 
eleven  shillings  a  week. 

'Well,'  whispered  Baxter  to  Johnny 
Button,  '  I  must  say  as  Gill  have  done 
it  'andsomer  than  iver  this  year.  I 
dunno'  how  he  do  manage  it.' 

'  Does  it  on  princerple, '  said  Johnny 
drily,  with  a  recollection  of  the  morn- 
ing's conversation. 

'  I  don't  'spose  now  that  there  mis- 
sionary do  get  a  meal  like  to  this  ivery 
day.'  ' 

'  Not  he.  Do  look  as  if  he  'd  like  to, 
however. ' 

'  Wonnerful,  to  think  what  he  have 
gone  through. ' 

2IO 


The   Extravagance  of  Solomon  Gill 

'  Lost  his  little  childer  there,  they 
do  say.  Died  one  arter  another  wi' 
the  fever.  He  've  got  a  look  him- 
self like  Widow  Penrose's  son  what 
died. ' 

'  They  do  say  as  he  's  goin'  back, 
howsomever,  an'  his  wife  as  mad  to  go 
as  he  be.  Takes  a  brave  heart  to  do 
that,  I  reckon,  'specially  when  they 
thinks  o'  them  little  graves.' 

'  I  doubt  I  could  n't  do  it,'  said  Bax- 
ter, with  a  sigh.  He  was  thinking  of 
his  own  four  little  children,  and  of  the 
one  who  died  of  the  measles  in  the 
spring. 

1  Gill  could,'  said  Johnny. 

'  Ah,  Gill  's  someway  different  to 
we.  I  've  often  wondered  what  it  was. 
Maybe  Christ  is  more  real-like  to  him 
than  what  He  be  to  some  on  us. ' 

The  meal  was  over,  and  the  crowning 
event  of  the  year  for  Solomon  Gill  was 
about  to  happen.  This  was  the  open- 
ing of  the  missionary-box. 

It  was  solemnly  deposed  from  its 
place  upon  the  basin,   and  Gill's  hand 

211 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

trembled  as  he  took  one  of  the  knives 
to  open  it. 

'  I  ain't  as  quick  as  I  were,'  he  said. 
'  My  poor  hands  'as  got  all  crippled  up 
with  the  rheumatis  this  winter.  But, 
bless  'ee,  I'll  manage  it  all  right,  if 
ye  '11  only  give  me  time. ' 

No  one  thought  of  offering  him  help. 
The  missionary,  who  had  it  on  his 
tongue  to  do  so,  saw  well  enough  by 
our  faces  how  we  regarded  the  affair. 
Gill  was  tasting  the  most  ecstatic  hour 
of  his  simple  life.  He  lingered  over 
the  box  fondly,  as  if  anxious  to  prolong 
the  exquisite  suspense.  He  cut  the 
paper  at  the  back  which  concealed  the 
flap  of  the  box,  gingerly,  as  though  it 
hurt  him  to  do  so.  I  saw  the  mission- 
ary pass  his  hand  over  his  eyes,  and  I 
respected  him  for  those  tears.  Perhaps 
he  was  thinking  that  those  little  graves 
in  a  far  land  were  worth  the  price  after 
all,  so  long  as  men  like  Solomon  Gill 
existed. 

At  last  the  wooden  flap  opened  with 
a  creak.     The  money  began  to  pour  out 

212 


The   Extravagance  of  Solomon  Gill 

into  the  plate  upon  the  table.  There 
was  scarcely  any  copper.  There  were 
many  sixpences  and  some  shillings. 
There  was  one  gold  piece  which  I 
thought  I  recognised.  I  knew  that 
Gill  had  had  a  half-sovereign  that  year 
as  a  Christmas-box  from  his  employer. 

It  was  slowly  counted  up,  while  we 
stood  round  the  table  in  expressive 
silence.  The  half-sovereign  lay  by  it- 
self in  golden  dignity;  the  little  piles 
of  silver  stood  round  at  a  respectful  dis- 
tance; the  coppers  seemed  ashamed  of 
themselves,  and  cowered  in  the  shadow 
of  the  cream -jug. 

'  Three  pound  fifteen  and  sevenpence, ' 
said  Mr.  Shannon  slowly.  '  Well,  Gill, 
that  's  the  best  you  've  done  yet.  I 
wish  my  people  in  Barford  would  do 
half  as  well. ' 

'  'T  ain't  too  much  for  such  a  cause,' 
said  Gill,  his  face  all  aglow.  '  I  wish 
'twere  more,  sir.  When  I  think  o'  all 
the  good  Lord  ha'  done  for  me,  I  feel 
as  I  can't  niver  do  enough  for  Him. ' 

There  was  a  pause,  and  then  Gill  said 
213 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

timidly,  '  You  wouldn't  think  it  proud 
o'  me,  sir,  if  we  was  to  sing  the  Dox- 
ology,  would  'ee?  I  feel  as  if  I  'd  like 
to  sing  summat,  an'  there  ain't  nothin' 
I  'd  like  to  sing  so  well. ' 

So  Gill  produced  his  well-worn  tun- 
ing-fork, and  struck  the  key-note,  and 
we  all  sung  with  a  will. 

It  was  a  pity  Davy  Lumsden  was  not 
there ;  but,  as  he  said  next  day,  he 
'  stayed  away  on  princerple. ' 


21A 


XII 

A    CASE    FOR    CONFLICT 

NO  one  who  saw  Solomon  Gill  lis- 
tening with  meek  ecstasy  to  an 
indifferent  discourse  in  the  Plumridge 
Green  Chapel  would  ever  have  imagined 
that  he  had  in  him  the  stuff  of  which 
warriors  are  made;  nevertheless,  there 
had  been  a  time  when  Gill  had  fought  a 
good  fight  which  had  made  him  quite  a 
popular  hero.  It  had  happened  in  the 
years  before  his  shoulders  stooped,  when 
his  Sunday  coat  had  lost  none  of  its  gilt 
buttons. 

In  those  days  Gill  was  straight  and 
elastic  as  a  poplar,  and  was  noted  as  the 
handiest  man  upon  a  farm  who  could  be 
found  in  four  parishes.  Now  it  fell  out 
at  this  time  that  the  farm  where  he  had 
worked  from  a  boy  changed  hands,  and 
the  new  tenant  was  a  rough,  bullying 
fellow  called  Wildgent,  who  came  from 

2*5 


Thro'    Lattice-Windows 

beyond  Southminster.  Gill  would  have 
taken  no  notice  of  his  bullying  ways, 
but  it  happened  that  this  Wildgent  soon 
gave  out  that  he  detested  all  '  meeting- 
ers, '  and  was  determined  that  no  '  meet- 
inger '  should  work  on  his  farm.  Gill 
heard  of  this,  and  his  grey  eyes  flashed. 
But  he  took  no  notice  of  it;  if  any- 
thing, he  did  his  work  better  than  ever, 
so  that  Wildgent,  who  was  no  fool,  put 
off  giving  him  notice  to  go  because  he 
knew  well  enough  that  it  would  be 
mighty  difficult  to  fill  his  place. 

'  You  've  heard  what  that  Wildgent 's 
a-doing  of?'  said  Johnny  Button  to 
Gill,  as  he  met  him  coming  home  from 
work  one  spring  night. 

'Ay,'  said  Gill,  'there's  not  much 
you  can  tell  me  about  Wildgent  that  I 
don't  know.  He  's  rootin'  we  meetin'- 
ers  out,  one  by  one,  an'  I  don't  doubt 
but  my  turn '11  come  presently.' 

'  An'  what  be  you  a-goin'  to  do  about 
it?' 

'  I  '11  tell  'ee  when  the  time  do  come, 
Johnny,'  said  Gill,  with  a  wise  smile. 

216 


A  Case  for  Conflict 

'  I  'm  not  one  o'  those  who  can't  eat 
to-day's  bread  because  I  'm  not  sure 
how  to-morrow's  '11  turn  out  in  the 
bakin'. ' 

And  with  these  enigmatic  words  Gill 
went  off  down  the  road  to  his  cottage, 
softly  whistling  a  hymn-tune  as  he 
walked. 

This  was  on  Saturday  night,  and 
after  supper.  Gill's  mother,  who  was 
alive  then,  began  to  talk  to  him  on  the 
same  subject.  She  was  one  of  those 
querulous,  faint-hearted  women  who 
live  with  the  vision  of  the  workhouse 
before  their  eyes,  and  she  had  heard 
rumours  of  the  conduct  of  Wildgent, 
and  was  full  of  trouble  over  what  she 
had  heard. 

'  I  should  think  as  you  would  n't  let 
him  turn  you  away  on  account  of  your 
goin'  to  meetin',  Sol,  would  'ee,  now? ' 
she  remarked,  in  her  thin,  complaining 
voice. 

'  Why,  mother,'  he  answered,  '  we  're 
in  the  Lord's  hands,  and  who  can  harm 
the   Lord's  elect?      There's  no  cause 

217 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

for  you  to  worry,'  and  he  stooped  his 
tall  figure  and  kissed  her  gently  on  the 
forehead. 

'  Cause  enough  if  we  be  goin'  to 
starve, '    she   retorted. 

'  There,  there,  don't  'ee  fear,  mother. 
If  the  Lord  meant  we  to  starve  He 
could  do  it  directly  minute,  by  just 
touchin'  these  poor  bodies  of  ours,  an' 
takin'  our  strength  away.  You  and  me 
has  been  kept  strong  and  been  well 
fed  these  many  years,  an'  the  Lord 
ain't  to  be  put  out  o'  His  ways  by  no 
Wildgents. ' 

'That  don't  satisfy  me,'  she  replied 
petulantly.  '  If  we  let  the  bread  be 
took  out  of  our  own  mouths,  we  can't 
expect  the  Lord  to  put  it  in  agen.  An', 
for  my  part,  I  can't  see  that  it  matters 
much  to  the  Lord  whether  we  do  go  to 
church  or  meetin'.  He  as  is  above 
won't  think  any  better  of  we  whichever 
we  do,  nor  any  worse  neither. ' 

'  But  He  expects  us  to  do  what  we 
know  is  right,'  said  Gill,  'an'  I'm 
agoin'  to  do  it.      It  'ud  take  a  bigger 

218 


A  Case  for  Conflict 

man  than  Wildgent  to  make  me  do  any 
other. ' 

Gill  consoled  himself  with  several 
warlike  Psalms  that  night,  and  as  he 
read  them  aloud  with  much  quiet  ani- 
mation, even  his  mother  felt  a  little 
pulse  of  courage  throb  in  her  members. 

'  I  allers  did  like  they  bloodthirsty 
stories  about  they  old  wars,'  she  re- 
marked with  a  serene  Pagan  indiffer- 
ence to  any  more  spiritual  suggestion; 
'  they  do  kind  o'  warm  'ee  up,  anyway.' 

Now  it  is  extremely  unlikely  that 
Wildgent  would  have  dismissed  Gill  at 
all,  knowing  his  worth  too  well,  but  on 
this  very  Sunday  he  happened  to  be  in 
an  evil  mood,  and  what  must  he  do  but 
ride  down  into  Plumridge  Green,  on 
the  lookout  for  a  cause  to  quarrel  with 
Gill.  He  had  been  drinking  a  good 
deal  during  the  day,  and  warming  up 
his  fury  against  meetingers,  whom  he 
regarded  as  a  parcel  of  sanctimonious 
knaves  who  neglected  their  duty.  As 
he  galloped  along  the  roads  it  was  easy 
to  persuade  himself  that  he  was  doing 

219 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

all  the  work  of  his  farm  himself  while 
Gill  was  idling  his  time  away  in  the 
Meeting-house.  By  the  time  he  reached 
Plumridge  Green  he  was  in  as  hot  a 
rage  as  could  be  wished,  and  the  sound 
of  singing  in  the  chapel  did  not  im- 
prove his  temper.  He  reined  up  his 
horse  at  the  door,  and  began  to  think 
of  what  a  fine  surprise  it  would  be 
for  Gill  if  he  dismissed  him  then  and 
there. 

The  dusk  had  fallen,  and  the  service 
was  near  its  close.  The  lamps  had  been 
lit  in  the  chapel,  and  Wildgent  could 
see  through  the  windows  Gill  standing 
at  his  desk,  beating  time  as  the  hymn 
was  sun?. 

'  If  some  poor  wandering  child  of  Thine 
To-day  had  spurned  the  voice  divine,' 

were  the  pathetic  words  which  floated 
out  upon  the  evening  stillness.  But 
they  only  increased  Wildgent's  unrea- 
sonable anger.  '  I  '11  have  no  psalm- 
singing  fools  on  my  farm,'  he  said,  with 
an  oath.       He  struck  his  horse  a  pur- 

220 


A  Case  for  Conflict 

poseless  blow,  and  his  dark  face  be- 
came flushed  and  evil.  Just  then  the 
doors  opened,  and  the  little  congrega- 
tion began  to  troop  out  in  twos  and 
threes.  They  looked  at  the  dark  man 
seated  on  his  foam-flecked  horse  with 
wondering  and  alarmed  eyes. 

'Been  to  your  Sunday  cant-shop?' 
he  said  with  a  bitter  smile.  But  no 
one  answered  him  a  word. 

'  Oh,  you  won't  open  your  mouths,' 
he  roared  at  them.  '  You  could  open 
them  wide  enough  a  minute  ago.  Ah, 
Sammy  Baker,  you  're  one  of  'em,  are 
you?  Here,  take  your  week's  wage, 
and  don't  show  yourself  on  my  farm 
again,  unless  you  want  horsewhipping. 
Where's  Gill?  Oh,  there  he  is,  the 
long-jawed  hypocrite.  Won't  work  on 
Sundays,  eh?  Then,  by  heavens,  I'll 
take  care  you  shan't  work  on  week- 
days either.'  He  flung  some  silver  on 
the  ground  with  a  passionate  gesture. 
'There's  your  money,  you  snivelling 
psalm-singer.  Get  those  who  like  your 
cursed    noise   pay   you   for  making   it. 

221 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

Not  another  penny  of  my  money  shall 
you  handle,   my  man  ! ' 

No  one  thought  of  touching  the 
money,  least  of  all  Gill.  It  lay  glit- 
tering on  the  little  paved  path  that  led 
to  the  chapel-door. 

'  I  've  served  you  true,  sir, '  said  Gill, 
in  a  steady  voice,  '  an'  I  'd  ha'  gone  on 
servin'  you  true  if  you  'd  ha'  let  me. 
But  I  'm  not  the  man  to  sell  my  Lord 
for  thirty  pieces  of  silver.  Don't  none 
o'  you  touch  that  money, '  he  said,  with 
a  glance  at  the  frightened  crowd.  '  Let 
it  lie  there.  Thy  money  perish  with 
thee,'  he  concluded,  with  a  gesture  that 
might  almost  be  called  sublime,  '  and 
the  Lord  be  judge  between  me  and  thee, 
sir. ' 

'Don't  try  your  humbug  on  me,' 
cried  Wildgent  threateningly.  In  his 
rage  he  lifted  his  whip,  as  if  he  would 
strike  Gill. 

'  You  can't  forbid  my  prayin'  for 
you,'  said  Gill.  'An'  I'll  pray  the 
dear  Lord  that  He  may  bring  you  to  a 
better  mind. ' 

222 


A.  Case  for  Conflict 

At  that  Wildgent  seemed  a  little 
ashamed  of  his  passion.  He  scowled 
down  at  Gill,  and  swore  a  deep  oath. 
Then  he  turned  his  horse  and  rode 
sulkily  away.  The  next  morning  the 
money  still  lay  scattered  on  the  ground. 
No  one  had  picked  it  up. 

That  week  there  was  very  little  else 
talked  about  all  over  the  countryside 
but  this  strange  folly  of  Wildgent. 
Every  man  and  boy  left  upon  the  farm 
watched  Wildgent  out  of  the  tail  of  his 
eye.  After  work  at  night  they  reported 
progress  to  interested  groups  upon  the 
Green. 

'Seems  to  me,'  said  Slocombe,  the 
chief  shepherd,  a  tall  and  excessively 
lean  man,  much  given  to  gloomy 
thoughts  and  superstitious  fancies,  '  the 
maister  be  demented.  Like  as  though 
the  devil  had  entered  into  him  for  sure, 
same  as  in  the  Gospels. ' 

'  Such  things  don't  happen  now-a- 
days, '  said  Jan  Peascod,  a  withered  old 
labourer,  who  had  never  been  to  either 
church  or  chapel   in  his  life,   and  was 

223 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

supposed  to  entertain  a  fine  free-think- 
ing scorn  for  every  species  of  religion. 

'  Much  you  do  know  about  it, '  re- 
torted Slocombe  severely.  '  Folk  as 
shut  their  eyes  don't  see  much,  an' 
least  o'  all  blasphemiously-minded  folk 
like  you.  But  I  know  what  I  know,  an' 
I  hev'  seen  sights. ' 

'  It  were  you  as  saw  Poll  Trevanion's 
ghost  the  night  she  were  drownded, 
weren't  it,  shepherd?'  said  Sanders, 
a  middle-aged  bilious  carter,  who  was 
a  notorious  coward  after  dark. 

'  It  were,'  said  the  shepherd  sol- 
emnly. '  Saw  the  pore  thing  a-comin' 
over  the  Three  Acre  Bottom,  a-wring- 
ing  of  her  'ands,  an'  the  water  a-drip- 
pin'  from  her  hair  as  she  coomed.  An' 
there  was  a  wind  coomed  with  her,  cold 
as  death,  though  it  were,  as  you  do  all 
know,  the  mid-week  of  August. ' 

'  You  hev'  n't  seed  Wildgent's  ghost 
by  no  manner  o'  means,  hev'  'ee,  shep- 
herd, '  said  Jan  with  a  feeble  effort  at 
jocosity. 

-  No,  but  I  hev'  seen  what  's  worse,' 
224 


A  Case  for  Conflict 

said  the  shepherd.  '  I  hev'  seen  an 
awful  thing  a-lookin'  out  of  his  eyes. 
Can  ye  tell  me,  nee'bours,  what  't  is  d<? 
make  a  grit  flock  o'  sheep  all  on  a  sud- 
dent  take  to  runnin'  wi'out  no  cause, 
and  go  on  runnin'  an'  bleatin'  in  a  sort 
o'  sweatin'  terror,  till  they  do  jump 
into  a  pit?  'T  is  the  devil  for  sure  as 
do  enter  into  they.  An'  't  is  so  wi' 
the  maister.  His  eye  hev'  the  same 
look  I  hev'  seen  in  they  sheep's;  take 
my  word  for  it,  nee'bours,  't  is  the  devil 
hev'  entered  into  he. ' 

It  seemed  a  plausible  enough  expla- 
nation, and  before  another  week  was 
out  it  had  attained  the  dimensions  of  a 
legend.  It  was  quite  certain  that  the 
black  dog  sat  on  Wildgent's  back.  The 
man  rode  about  his  farm  all  day  in  a 
dark  smouldering  rage,  ready  to  break 
out  into  a  fury  of  words  at  the  least 
trifle.  His  men  trembled  before  him, 
and  dreaded  the  sound  of  his  voice. 
Moreover,  things  were  going  wrong 
upon  the  farm.  The  man  he  had  en- 
gaged in  Gill's  place  was  hopelessly 
15  225 


Thro     Lattice-Windows 

incompetent.  The  worse  things  went 
the  more  furious  grew  Wildgent's  rage, 
and  the  harder  he  drank.  He  found 
himself  looked  at  askance  and  gener- 
ally avoided  in  Barford  market.  The 
story  of  his  misdeeds  lost  nothing  as  it 
flew  from  mouth  to  mouth,  and  men 
regarded  him  with  sullen  curiosity  or 
plain  aversion. 

In  the  meantime  Gill  sat  at  home  in 
his  little  cottage,  and  possessed  his  soul 
in  peace.  He  might  easily  enough  have 
found  another  situation,  and  there  were 
plenty  of  farmers  eager  to  engage  him. 

'Why  don't  'ee  get  another  place?' 
said  Johnny  Button  to  him  more  than 
once. 

1  I  dwell  among  my  own  people,'  he 
replied,  with  a  touch  of  pride.  '  Boy 
an'  man  I  've  worked  nigh  on'  thirty 
years  up  to  Elm-tree  Farm,  an'  I  can't 
justly  make  up  my  mind  to  leave  it.  I 
know  every  tree  upon  the  farm,  an' 
a'most  every  twig  upon  the  trees.  I  've 
sowed  the  corn  there  this  twenty  year, 
an'  I  've  reaped  the  harvest.      'Tis  as- 

226 


A  Case  for  Conflict 

tonishing  how  these  things  do  lay  hold 
on  you.  The  very  earth  gets  to  know 
you,  in  a  way  o'  speaking.  1  doubt  I 
should  n't  do  so  well  nowheres  else. ' 

'That's  all  very  well,'  said  Johnny, 
'  but  you  've  got  to  live. ' 

'  Don't  you  worry  about  me,  Johnny,' 
he  replied.  '  The  Lord  cares  for  His 
own,  an'  't  is  fair  astonishin'  on  how 
little  you  can  live  when  your  heart  be 
at  rest.  Besides,  there  be  somethin' 
that  tells  me  that  I  'm  agoin'  back  to 
my  old  place  before  long.' 

'  Been  a-dreamin'  like  Pharaoh's  but- 
ler in  the  prison  ? '  said  Johnny. 

'Maybe,'  answered  Gill,  'but  'tis 
a  better  dream  than  he  ever  had. 
There  's  One  as  walks  in  it  like  unto 
the  Son  of  Man. ' 

Johnny  said  no  more,  for  he  felt  si- 
lenced by  the  quiet  faith  of  the  man. 
But  he  went  about  and  repeated  Gill's 
words,  and  now  it  was  a  legend  about 
Gill  that  began  to  grow.  Folks  dimly 
realised  that  there  was  something  higher 
than  the  mere  heroic  in  Gill's  attitude. 

227 


Thro'    Lattice-Windows 

They  had  the  sense  of  witnessing  a  con- 
flict in  which  unseen  forces  were  en- 
gaged. On  Sundays  the  little  chapel 
was  crowded,  and  all  eyes  were  fixed  on 
Gill  when  he  took  out  his  tuning-fork 
to  raise  the  tune.  A  spiritual  effluence 
clothed  him  in  such  moments,  and  the 
dullest  recognised  it  as  something  sweet 
and  awful.  Men  shook  his  hand  after 
the  service,  and  had  a  sense  of  pride  in 
doing  so.  But  when  they  tried  to  show 
their  sympathy  with  him  by  speaking 
hard  words  of  Wildgent,  Gill  always 
stopped   them. 

'  He  knows  no  better,  poor  man,'  he 
would  say.  '  I  doubt  he  's  had  some 
trouble  that  has  soured  his  mind. 
'T  is  n't  every  soil  grows  corn,  and  the 
weeds  must  be  burned  out  of  any  soil 
before  't  is  worth  the  sowin'.  We  've 
no  call  to  abuse  a  soil,  nee'bours,  for 
what  it  can't  help.' 

June  had  now  come,  and  the  full  rush 
of  summer  was  upon  the  earth.  In 
low-lying  meadows  the  sound  of  the 
scythe  was  heard,   and  the  haymaking 

22S 


A  Case  for  Conflict 

had  commenced.  In  sunny  orchards 
the  cherries  were  already  ripe,  and  men 
and  boys,  gathering  the  fruit,  called  to 
one  another  from  the  shaking  trees,  as 
from  skiey  nests.  There  was  a  sound 
of  a  going  in  the  tree-tops,  a  mirth  of 
voices  that  ran  across  the  valleys  like 
a  wave. 

Gill  still  sat  silent  in  his  cottage,  but 
he  was  no  longer  quite  at  ease.  He  had 
long  since  done  all  that  could  be  done 
to  his  own  small  patch  of  ground,  and 
his  hands  hung  idle.  The  few  pounds 
—  they  were  very  few  —  which  he  had 
saved  were  spent.  His  mother's  voice, 
like  the  persistent  buzz  of  some  un- 
happy insect,  vibrated  ceaselessly  upon 
his  ears. 

'  I  should  think  you  was  ashamed  o' 
yourself,  a  girt  strong  man  like  you, 
a-doin'  nothin','  she  was  always  saying. 
'I  see  what  it  means  —  you  an'  me  's 
bound  for  the  'House,  an'  much  good 
your  chapel  '11  do  'ee  then,  when  you 
be  a  pauper.  An'  we  Gills  hev'  always 
been  respectable,   too. '     And  the  poor 

229 


Thro'    Lattice-Windows 

woman  flung  her  apron  over  her  face 
and  wept. 

Gill  rose  softly,  and  went  out  into  his 
garden  much  perplexed.  He  had  waited 
now  two  months  for  some  sign  from 
Wildgent,  and  none  had  come.  He 
still  cherished  stubbornly  the  hope  of 
going  back  to  Elm-tree  Farm,  but  his 
hope  diminished  with  every  week  of 
waiting.  For  the  last  few  days  he  had 
lived  upon  bread  and  such  green  herbs 
as  he  could  gather  in  his  garden.  He 
came  into  the  house  again  now  with 
some  green  stuff  under  his  arm,  won- 
dering whether  after  all  it  were  not  his 
duty,  for  his  mother's  sake,  to  get  an- 
other place  in  some  adjoining  parish. 

When  he  reached  the  door  he  paused 
terror-struck.  His  mother  stood  on  the 
other  side  the  room  against  the  window 
with  the  missionary-box  in  her  hands. 
She  was  endeavouring  to  prise  the  back 
open  with  a  knife.  He  watched  her  a 
moment  in  an  agony  of  thought.  Then 
he  stepped  forward  with  a  pale  face. 
He  was  not  angry,   he  was  only  inex- 

230 


A  Case  for  Conflict 

pressibly  shocked.  He  laid  his  hand 
upon  her  shoulder,  and  she  dropped  the 
box  with  a  cry. 

'Mother,  mother,'  he  said,  in  falter- 
ing tones,  '  you  were  not  going  .  .  . 
not  going  to  steal  ? ' 

'I  don't  see  no  stealin'  in  it,'  she 
retorted  angrily.  '  'T  is  your  own  money 
anyway.  You  put  it  in  there,  an'  if 
you  don't  want  to  starve,  you  've  just 
got  to  take  it  out  agen. ' 

' 'T  is  God's  money,'  he  whispered, 
with  awe-struck  reverence. 

'  Then  let  God  pay  for  all  the  trouble 
He's  caused  you.  'Tis  not  askin' 
much  o'  Him  that  is  above  to  do  that.' 

'  I  'd  die  before  I  touched  it,'  he  said 
with  such  intensity  that  his  mother  was 
awed.  She  had  no  more  strength  left 
in  her,  and  could  only  weep. 

Gill  picked  up  the  box,  and  restored 
it  to  its  place  upon  the  mantel.  Then 
he  crossed  the  room,  put  his  arm  round 
his  mother's  neck,  and  said  softly, 
'There,  mother,  you  didn't  mean  it. 
You  was   only  a-lookin'  at    it,   maybe. 

231 


Thro'    Lattice-Windows 

There 's    strange   things    come    to    our 
minds,  like  as  'twere  big  black  clouds 
that    do    come    out    of    no    one    knows 
where.      But  they  do  pass  away  agen, 
an'  melt. ' 

He  was  still  talking  to  his  mother, 
when  there  was  a  smart  rap  upon  the 
door.  It  was  Wildgent.  Gill  opened 
the  door,  and  Wildgent  stepped  in  with- 
out a  word. 

He  had  greatly  altered  since  that  day 
when  he  had  scowled  down  on  Gill  at 
the  chapel  door.  The  boldness  had 
gone  out  of  his  face,  the  insolent  fire 
from  his  eyes.  His  cheeks  hung  pale 
and  flabby,  and  if  ever  a  man's  looks 
expressed  fear  Wildgent 's  did. 

He  glanced  round  the  room  almost 
timidly.  He  saw  half  a  loaf  of  bread 
and  the  herbs  upon  the  table,  and 
guessed  that  this  was  Gill's  dinner. 
He  twice  made  an  effort  to  speak,  and 
failed.      Something  choked  him. 

'  I  'm  real  glad  to  see  you,  sir,  if  so 
be  you  come  friendly,'  said  Gill.  'I 
told  'ee  I  would  pray  for  'ee,  and  I  hev'. ' 

232 


A  Case  for  Conflict 

'  You  '  ve  prayed  for  me  .  .  .  for  me  ? ' 
he  said  gloomily.  'Well,  if  you've 
prayed  that  harm  might  come  to  me, 
your  prayer  has  been  answered.  I  be- 
lieve I  'm  the  unhappiest  devil  in  the 
world.  Upon  my  word, '  he  added, 
with  a  touch  of  his  old  contempt,  '  I 
should  believe  I  'd  been  bewitched,  if  I 
believed  in  such  things  at  all. ' 

'  Surely  not, '  said  Gill.  '  I  've  prayed 
no  harm  for  'ee,  sir.  'Twas  only  good 
I  prayed  for  'ee. ' 

•  Well,'  said  Wildgent,  '  we  '11  leave 
that.  Somehow  I  believe  you,  though 
I  never  thought  it  possible  I  could. 
The  long  and  short  of  it  is,  will  you 
come  back?  I  know  you  're  a  good  ser- 
vant, an'  I  believe  I  could  be  a  good 
master,    if  I  tried. ' 

'That  I  will,  sir,  and  gladly,'  said 
Gill.  'But  I'm  a  "meetinger,"  you 
know,'  he  added  with  a  whimsical 
smile. 

'  I  wish  all  my  men  were  "meeting- 
ers,"  if  they  did  their  work  as  well  as 
you   used  to,'    said  Wildgent.      '  'Pon 

233 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

my  word,  I  think  I  '11  turn  meetinger 
too.  God  knows,  a  poor  devil  like  me 
wants  something  to  keep  him  straight.' 
'  I  told  you,'  said  Gill  that  night  to 
Johnny  Button,  '  the  weeds  has  to  be 
burned  off  the  soil  before  it  '11  grow 
corn.  'Tis  my  belief  that  man's  rage 
was  just  the  fire  that  burned  up  the 
weeds  in  him.  You  '11  see,  he  '11  grow 
the  good  corn  yet. ' 


234 


XIII 

THE    LAST    HOME 

TWILL  be  a  black  shame  if  we 
do  let  it  happen, '  said  Baxter, 
as  he  met  Johnny  Button  on  the  Green 
one  grey  March  morning. 

'  How  can  we  help  it  ?  '  said  Johnny 
despondently.  '  I  '11  allow,  for  my  part, 
as  I  'd  liefer  die  in  a  ditch,  but  Gill 
ain't  like  we.  He  jest  treats  it  sort 
o'  smilin',  an'  says  't  is  the  Lord's 
will. ' 

4  Don't  you  make  no  mistake/  Bax- 
ter retorted  hotly.  *  Gill  feels  it, 
though  he  's  man  enough  to  hide  his 
feelin's.  I  was  a-passin'  late  the  other 
night,  an'  seein'  a  light  in  the  winder 
I  looked  in,  an'  seed  what  I  don't  want 
to  see  no  more.  Gill  was  a-takin'  a  few 
bits  o'  things  out  o'  his  cupboard,  and 
puttin'  'em  together  in  the  middle  o' 
the   table.       There   was    some    chaney 

235 


Thro'    Lattice- Windows 

I  've  heer'd  him  say  was  his  mother's, 
and  he  was  wipin'  it  careful  with  his 
handkerchief.  I  heer'd  him  groan,  an' 
when  he  lifted  up  his  face  I  see  as  he 
were  cry  in'.  Then  he  knelt  down  an' 
started  prayin',  an'  I  seed  his  poor  old 
shoulders  shakin'  all  the  time,  for  there 
were  more  cryin'  than  prayin'  in  it,  I 
reckon.  Eh,  't  is  a  hard  thing  for  a 
man  as  hev'  strove  his  best  all  his  life 
to  go  to  vvorkh'us  at  the  last.' 

'I  didn't  mean  it  that  way,'  said 
Johnny  apologetically.  '  But  we  ain't 
all  made  alike.  I  'd  give  what  I  could 
willin'  to  keep  Gill  from  it.'  For  the 
life  of  him  he  could  not  utter  the  word. 
The  '  workhouse '  is  a  word  which 
leaves  a  stain  on  honest  lips. 

The  two  men  stood  looking  at  one 
another  mutely,  and  then  their  eyes  in- 
sensibly travelled  to  Gill's  tiny  cottage 
at  the  end  of  the  Green.  There  was  no 
smoke  rising  from  the  chimney.  A 
man  was  coming  out  of  the  door.  He 
was  tall,  like  Gill,  but  preternaturally 
thin.       He    wore    a    top-hat    and    was 

236 


The   Last  Home 

dressed  in  black.  His  face  had  none 
of  the  ruddy  country  freshness ;  it  was 
of  a  yellow  pallor. 

'  That  's  Gill's  brother  from  Lunnon, 
by  all  accounts,'  said  Johnny.  '  Maybe 
he  's  come  down  to  set  things  straight.' 

The  man  came  towards  them,  walk- 
ing slowly,  with  downcast  head. 

Baxter  addressed  him,  and  the  tall 
man  stopped,  looking  at  the  two  old 
men  a  trifle   superciliously. 

'We're  all  a-feelin'  it,'  went  on 
Baxter  impetuously.  '  'T  is  a  cruel 
thing  for  Gill  to  be  sent  there  to  die; 
an'  if  you  're  his  brother,  as  by  all  ac- 
counts you  be,  I  pray  God  as  you  may 
be  able  to  prevent  it,  sir. ' 

'Well,'  said  the  tall  man  bitterly, 
'  I  can't  prevent  it,  so  you  may  as  well 
know  it  at  once.  I  dare  say  you  think 
that  London  's  a  place  paved  with  gold, 
an'  because  I  've  come  from  London 
I  've  money  enough  to  do  what  I  please. 
God  knows  that  I'm  no  better  off  than 
old  Sol  yonder.  There  's  a  many  of  us 
in   London  that   wears  a  decent  black 

237 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

coat,  but  there 's  precious  little  shirt 
under  it.  I  've  six  children,  an'  one  on 
'em  's  a  cripple.  Besides,  in  London 
we  get  out  o'  the  way  of  hating  the 
poorhouse  like  you  country  folk  do. 
There  was  a  man  in  our  ware'ouse  that 
went  to  the  work'ouse,  an'  a  year  after 
had  some  money  left  'im;  but  do  you 
think  he  came  out  ?  Not  he.  He  said 
he  'd  never  been  so  'appy  in  his  life, 
for  he  'd  got  rid  o'  his  worries,  an'  his 
wife,  an'  no  money  'ud  ever  tempt  him 
out  again. ' 

The  two  old  men  looked  at  one  an- 
other in  speechless  indignation.  They 
had  listened  to  a  blasphemy  against 
human    nature. 

'I've  heer'd  tell,'  said  Baxter,  his 
face  aflame,  '  that  you  Lunnon  folk  was 
a  bad  lot,  an'  now  I  know  it.  A  man 
wi'  the  spirit  o'  a  weevil  wouldn't  talk 
like  that.  Men  like  to  you  had  n't 
ought  to  be  born.  Happy  in  the  work- 
h'us !  Good  God,  can  a  man  be  happy 
as  lives  nex'  door  to  hell  ?  ' 

The  tall  man  winced  and  turned  livid. 
238 


The   Last   Home 

'  Goin'  to  preach,  are  you,  you  two 
silly  old  Johnnys?'  he  said,  with  a 
mirthless  laugh.  '  Then  I  '11  be  goin'. 
I  never  was  fond  of  preachin',  an'  it  's 
so  many  years  since  I  'eard  a  sermon 
that  I  'm  afraid  I  could  n't  stand  it. ' 

'  If  that  's  the  sort  o'  creature  Lun- 
non  makes, '  said  Baxter,  as  he  watched 
the  man  in  black  moving  leisurely  away, 
'I'd  rather  starve  where  I  be. ' 

'  'T  is  clean  air,  anyway,'  said  Johnny 
meditatively. 

'  That  creature  's  breathed  dirt  till  his 
very  soul's  dirty,'  said  Baxter.  '  His 
inside 's  like  a  choked  chimbley. ' 

In  Plumridge  Green  there  was  noth- 
ing talked  of  that  day  but  the  fate 
which  hung  over  Solomon  Gill.  It  was 
generally  understood  that  he  was  to  go 
to  Barford  workhouse  the  next  after- 
noon. He  had  earned  hardly  anything 
through  the  winter,  and  was  more  than 
ever  crippled  by  the  rheumatism.  There 
were  a  good  many  people  who  said  they 
had  always  known  that  this  would  hap- 
pen,  and  indeed  it  required  but   little 

239 


Thro'   Lattice- Windows 

intuition  to  utter  such  a  prophecy. 
The  last  earthly  bourn  of  the  broken- 
down  labourer  has  always  been  the 
workhouse. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  Mr.  Potterbee 
and  old  Mr.  Shannon  were  seen  to  enter 
the  village  and  go  straight  to  Gill's 
cottage.  The  news  spread,  and  they 
were  regarded  as  deliverers.  Such  a 
visit  could  only  mean  that  Gill  was  to 
be  rescued,  and  the  eyes  that  watched 
the  two  men  from  twenty  cottage  win- 
dows had  the  same  light  in  them  that 
has  been  known  to  burn  like  a  torch  of 
joy  in  the  eyes  of  beleaguered  garri- 
sons. There  was  not  a  man  in  Plum- 
ridge  Green  who  would  not  have  tossed 
up  his  hat  for  joy  to  know  that  Gill  was 
saved. 

Perhaps  that  long  interview  —  for  it 
lasted  two  hours  —  in  Gill's  cottage 
was  the  noblest  chapter  in  all  his  sim- 
ple life.  It  was  a  true  epic  of  piety 
and  honesty. 

'  There  's  absolutely  no  need  for  you 
to  go,'  said  old  Mr.    Potterbee,   in  his 

240 


The  Last  Home 

soft  voice,  which  always  seemed  to 
have  a  note  of  peace  in  it,  as  of  dis- 
tant silver  bells,  heard  out  of  a  starry 
silence. 

'As  long  as  you  live,  Gill,  there  are 
those  of  us  who  will  see  that  you  don't 
want. ' 

'Thank  'ee,  kindly,'  said  Gill;  '  'tis 
a  kind  thought,  sure  enough,  for  'ee  to 
hev'  for  a  poor  old  fellow  like  me,  but 
'tis  like  this,  sir,  I  couldn't  bring  my- 
sel'  to  take  charity,  not  when  there  's 
so  many  others  as  need  it  more.  'T  is 
not  that  T  'm  proud,  sir,  for  the  dear 
Lord  's  always  been  a-givin'  me  things 
all  my  life,  an'  I  ain't  above  takin' 
help  from  those  as  gives  it  for  His 
sake.  But  there  's  a  many  as  needs  it 
more  nor  me. ' 

'  But  they  shall  have  help  too,  Gill. 
It 's  not  as  if  you  were  taking  some- 
thing from  some  one  else.' 

'  No,   I  know  that,   sir.      I  know  as 

you  ain't  the  man  to  say,  "Now  I've 

give  to  one  o'  the   Lord's  children,    I 

can't  give  to  no  other."     But  I  feel,  all 

'6  241 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

the  same,  as  it  would  n't  be  right  for 
me  to  take  it.  An'  if  you  wouldn't 
mind  me  a-suggestin'  it,  if  you  would 
give  what  you  was  a-goin'  to  allow  me 
to  poor  old  Betsy  Blossom,  over  at 
Barnard's  End,  'twould  be  a  real  joy 
to  me,  sir;  for  she  be  bedridden,  an' 
no  one  goes  a-nigh  her,  her  not  bein' 
one  o'  the  chapel-folk,  an'  she  do  need 
it  more  nor  me. ' 

Mr.  Potterbee  wiped  his  eyes,  and, 
turning  to  Mr.  Shannon,  said,  '  Can't 
you  say  something  to  convince  Gill  we 
can't  let  him  go  ?  ' 

'  Well,  I  was  going  to  say, '  said  the 
minister,  '  that  we  really  can't  spare 
Gill  from  the  chapel.  Think,'  he  said, 
turning  to  Gill,  '  how  much  good  you  've 
done  among  the  people,  and  surely 
you  '11  see  that  it 's  your  duty  to  stay 
with  them. ' 

'  I  've  thought  on  that,  too,'  said  Gill, 
and  his  lips  trembled.  '  But  the  Lord 
won't  let  His  work  stop  for  the  want 
o'  a  poor  old  fellow  like  me.  Besides, 
I  be  gettin'  too  old  to  do  all   I   hev' 

242 


The  Last  Home 

done,  an'  't  is  time  some  on  the  younger 
chaps  had  a  turn. ' 

'  But  the  workhouse,  Gill,  the  work- 
house,' said  Mr.  Shannon  solemnly. 
'  It  's  too  dreadful  to  think  of  you  going 
there. ' 

'  The  dear  Lord  went  lower  nor  that 
to  save  me, '  said  the  old  man,  with  an 
upward  glance.  '  I  doubt  as  why  we 
dread  the  'Ouse  so,  is  because  there  's 
all  sorts  o'  bad  and  worthless  folk  as 
get  into  it,  and  we  feel  a  kind  o'  soil 
upon  us  to  be  found  wi'  them.  But 
Jesus  Christ,  He  wouldn't  ha'  felt  like 
that;  maybe  the  sort  o'  folk  what's 
there  would  ha'  made  Him  all  the 
readier  to  go  among  'em. 

'  I  '11  tell  'ee  quite  honest  what  I 
hev'  thought  about  it  all.  I  saw  nigh 
on  a  year  ago  that  this  hour  were  a-com- 
in',  an'  I  prayed  like  the  dear  Lord  as 
I  might  be  saved  from  this  hour.  We 
Gills  hev'  always  been  honest  folk,  an' 
hev'  died  in  our  own  beds,  poor  though 
we  be.  Many  a  night  I  hev'  laid  awake, 
an'  sort  o'  seed  this  hour,   like  a  big 

243 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

black  shadow,  all  whisht  an'  ghost-like, 
standin'  in  the  corner  o'  the  room,  an' 
hev'  heer'd  it  say,  "I'm  a-comin',  an' 
you  can't  escape  Me."  One  night,  I 
mind  me,  I  couldn't  bear  it  no  more, 
so  I  got  out  o'  bed,  an'  went  to  the 
cupboard,  an'  got  out  all  the  little  bits 
o'  things  my  mother  left  me  when  she 
died.  I  felt  as  though  I  heer'd  her  say- 
in',  "You'll  never  let  them  things  go 
inter  strange  hands,  my  sonny."  An' 
it  made  me  mad  a'most  to  think  o'  it, 
an'  I  prayed  as  I  might  die  first. 

'  After  a  long  while  I  got  into  bed 
again,  and  what  wi'  bein'  wore  out  with 
perplexity  an'  sorrow  I  fell  asleep;  an' 
then  I  had  a  dream.  I  thought  as  I 
saw  that  shadow  in  the  corner  move, 
an'  it  were  as  if  it  put  up  its  arm,  and 
drawed  back  a  veil  from  its  face.  An' 
then  I  seed  as  the  face  were  pale,  an' 
the  hand  that  were  lifted  up  had  a  red 
wound  in  it,  an'  I  someway  knew  as  it 
were  Christ.  He  looked  at  me  sorrow- 
ful-like, an'  said,  "  Solomon  Gill,  fol- 
low Me."     An'  then  I  seed  Him  a-goin' 

244 


The  Last  Home 

straight  to  Barford  Workh'us,  an'  en- 
terin'  a  long  whitewashed  room  where 
all  sorts  o'  people  lay  asleep,  an'  their 
faces  was  mostly  sad,  and  those  what 
was  wicked  looked  the  saddest  o'  all. 
Then  He  says,  "  These  also  are  My 
children  ;  an'  you  must  love  them  for 
My  sake,  an'  sorely  do  they  need  some 
one  as '11  love  'em,  an'  tell  'em  as  I 
hav'  n't  never  forgotten  'em."  I  woke 
up  at  that,  an'  the  first  words  on  my 
lips  was,  "Yea,  though  I  make  my  bed 
in  hell,  behold  Thou  art  there."  After 
that  night  I  never  saw  that  shadow  in 
the  corner  no  more,  nor  was  afeard  o' 
it.  But  I  sometimes  thought  as  that 
corner  o'  the  room  was  brighter  nor  the 
others,  as  if  there  was  a  shinin'  Cross 
as  glimmered  in  it.' 

The  old  man's  face  glowed  as  he 
spoke.  He  had  never  looked  so  much 
like  a  saint  as  in  this  hour  of  supreme 
renunciation. 

'Well,'  said  Potterbee  sadly,  'I  see 
your  mind  's  made  up,  Gill,  and  if  you 
feel  't  is  the  Lord's  will,  I  've  no  more 

2  45 


Thro'    Lattice-Windows 

to  say.  But  I  shall  always  feel  't  is  a 
disgrace  to  us  to  let  you  go. ' 

'  Now  don't  'ee  go  a-feelin'  that  way, 
sir,'  he  replied  earnestly.  'Why,  I 
shall  know  as  you  all  love  me  jest  the 
same,  though  I  be  in  the  'Ouse.  An' 
maybe  I  can  do  somethin'  there  for  the 
Lord's  wanderin'  children.  Paul,  he 
preached  in  the  prison  to  the  prison- 
ers, an'  why  shouldn't  I  speak  a  word 
for  my  dear  Lord  to  the  poor  old  folk 
in  the  'Ouse  as  want  comfortin',  and 
haven't  found  no  comfort  in  this  weary 
world  ?  Spirits  in  prison  they  be,  sure 
enough  ! ' 

'  Is  there  nothing  we  can  do  for  you, 
then  —  before  you  go  ?  ' 

'  Well,  yes;  there's  two  or  dree  lit- 
tle things,  if  you  wouldn't  mind.' 

The  old  man  went  to  the  painted  cup- 
board in  the  corner  of  the  room,  and 
unlocked  the  doors  with  a  slow  and  lin- 
gering hand. 

'There's  this  chaney, '  he  said  in  a 
gentle  voice.  ''Twere  my  mother's, 
an'  as  I  've  heer'd  her  say  'twas  bought 

246 


The   Last  Home 

when  she  married.  That  'ud  be  a  mat- 
ter of  eighty  years  agone,  for  I  be  close 
on  seventy.  If  you  'ud  kindly  take  it, 
sir,  I  'd  be  very  much  obliged.  It  'ud 
pain  me  sore  to  think  o'  it  goin'  any- 
wheres, and  like  as  not  gettin'  broke. 
An'  there's  that  there  mission'ry-box. 
It  hev'  stood  there  on  the  mantel  this 
forty  year,  an'  I  couldn't  bear  to  think 
as  it  'ud  never  be  full  no  more.  For 
forty  year  the  name  o'  Solomon  Gill 
hev'  been  in  the  Mission'ry  Report,  an' 
now  't  won't  be  there  no  more.  I'll 
allow  as  that  do  trouble  me — •' 

He  took  the  box  from  the  shelf, 
handling  it  tenderly.  There  were  tears 
in  his  eyes. 

'She  do  feel  rare  and  lightish,'  he 
said,  with  the  air  of  an  expert.  '  But 
I  didn't  expect  no  other.  'T  is  but  lit- 
tle I  hev'  been  able  to  do  this  year. 
Still,  I  do  hope  as  there  's  a  matter  o' 
two  pound  or  so  in  her. ' 

He  seemed  to  have  forgotten  his  vis- 
itors in  his  contemplation  of  the  box. 
He  was  turning  it  round  in  his  hands, 

247 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

listening  to  the  rattle  of  the  money, 
and  talking  to  himself  like  a  man  in  a 
dream. 

Potterbee  rose,  his  face  suffused  with 
emotion. 

'Give  me  the  box,  Gill,'  he  said. 
'  This,  at  least,  shall  not  go  into  other 
hands,  or  have  another  name.  We  will 
keep  it  as  "  Solomon  Gill's  box  "  as  long 
as  God  spares  you,  an'  you  need  n't  fear 
but  that  it  shall  be  kept  full. ' 

The  old  man  breathed  an  air  of  relief. 

'  'T  is  real  good  of  you,  sir,'  he  said. 
'I'll  confess,  now  you've  said  what 
you  hev',  that  I  was  more  troubled  over 
that  mission'ry  money  than  anythin' 
else.  I  didn't  want  the  Lord's  work 
to  suffer  because  Solomon  Gill  were 
gone.  But  now  that  's  all  put  right, 
why,  I  've  nothin'  else  to  wish  for.  I 
can  say  truthful,  "  Now,  Lord,  lettest 
Thou  Thy  servant  depart  in  peace."  ' 

The  two  visitors  rose  to  leave  the 
cottage.  They  looked  round  the  room 
with  more  than  the  common  sadness 
that  men  feel  in  seeing  familiar  things 

248 


The   Last  Home 

for  the  last  time.  A  painted  dresser 
ran  along  one  wall ;  in  the  corner  next 
it  stood  the  cupboard,  and  next  the  cup- 
board a  little  oak  table,  on  which  Gill's 
Bible  lay  open,  with  his  spectacles  laid 
beside  it.  In  the  low  latticed  window 
were  ranged  last  year's  geraniums.  A 
black  pot  swung  on  the  crook  over  the 
wood  fire.  Beside  the  fire  was  the  set- 
tle, where  Gill  used  to  read  of  an  even- 
ing when  his  work  was  done.  On  a 
little  shelf  near  the  window  were  the 
Reports  of  the  Missionary  Society  for 
forty  years,  all  in  order;  not  one  was 
missing. 

By  the  end  of  the  week  all  would  be 
changed.  The  cottage  was  already  let, 
for  cottages  were  scarce  in  Plumridge 
Green.  Every  trace  of  a  human  life, 
once  sheltered  by  those  four  walls, 
would  be  wiped  out,  as  with  a  sponge. 

'  God  bless  you,  Gill,'  stammered  the 
minister.  It  was  all  that  either  could 
say.  They  wrung  the  old  man's  hand 
and  went  out  quickly  into  the  falling 
dusk. 

249 


Thro'    Lattice-Windows 

At  the  corner  of  the  Green  that  gave 
upon  the  Barford  road,  a  little  group 
waited  for  them.  They  were  mostly 
chapel-folk,  who  had  known  Gill  all 
their    lives. 

'  Well,  sir,  we  do  hope  as  you  hev' 
put  it  all  right,'  said  Button,  who  was 
their  spokesman.  '  Tell  us  that  Gill 
ain't   a-goin'.' 

'  He  's  made  his  mind  up  to  go, '  said 
Potterbee  sadly. 

There  was  a  sigh  of  consternation  in 
the  little  crowd. 

'  Eh,  but  't  is  terrible  cruel, '  said 
some  one.  '  An'  he  a  good,  honest, 
God-fearin'  man  all  his  life.  'Twill 
be  a  terrible  disgrace  for  he.' 

'There's  some  men  you  can't  dis- 
grace,' said  the  minister,  'and  Gill's 
one  of  them. ' 

Some  of  them  felt  the  truth  of  the 
remark,  but  for  most  it  was  almost  un- 
intelligible. The  terror  of  the  poor- 
house  is  the  most  vital  terror  which  the 
poor  man  knows.  Nothing  can  eradi- 
cate the  idea  of  indelible  disgrace  that 

250 


The  Last   Home 

is  associated  with  it.  There  was  not 
one  of  them  who  would  not  cheerfully 
have  died  rather  than  have  trodden 
the  road  that  Gill  was  to  take  on  the 
morrow. 

In  the  morning  every  eye  in  the  vil- 
lage kept  a  watch  on  Gill's  cottage. 
At  ten  o'clock  a  farm-cart  drew  up  at 
the  door,  and  Gill's  simple  furniture 
was  piled  in  it.  There  was  not  much 
of  it.  At  the  top  of  the  pile  was  seen 
the  table  where  the  missionary  deputa- 
tions had  been  royally  fed  for  forty 
anniversaries.  Davy  Lumsden  recog- 
nised it  from  afar,  and  felt  as  Jonah 
would  have  felt  if  Nineveh  had  not 
repented. 

The  cart  moved  away,  and  no  one  had 
the  curiosity  to  ask  what  had  become  of 
Gill's  brother.  It  was  popularly  sup- 
posed that  he  had  bought  Gill's  furni- 
ture for  a  song,  and  sold  it  to  a  dealer 
in  Barford,  making  enough  by  the  trans- 
action to  pay  his  fare  back  to  London. 

It  was  noticed  at  twelve  o'clock  that 
a  thin    smoke  was  rising   from    Gill's 

25* 


Thro'   Lattice- Windows 

chimney.  The  deduction  was  that  he 
was  engaged  in  cooking  his  last  meal 
in  the  dismantled  room.  The  door  of 
the  cottage  stood  ajar,  for  the  morning 
was  fine  and  warm,  and  some  one  pass- 
ing at  half-past  twelve  reported  that 
Gill  was  saying  grace  for  his  food. 
The  words  he  used  were  those  he  had 
used  all  his  life :  '  We  thank  Thee,  O 
Lord,  who  hast  given  us  all  things 
richly  to   enjoy.' 

It  was  two  in  the  afternoon  when  he 
appeared  at  the  door.  He  was  dressed 
in  the  old  blue  coat  with  brass  buttons, 
which  had  been  his  Sunday  attire  for  a 
lifetime.  He  had  a  small  bundle,  tied 
up  with  a  red  cotton  handkerchief,  in 
one  hand,  and  a  stout  stick  in  the 
other.  He  looked  wistfully  across  the 
Green  to  the  little  chapel,  and  then 
turned  to  look  through  the  cottage  win- 
dow once  more. 

Baxter  and  Johnny  Button,  and  a 
dozen  of  the  chapel-folk,  who  had  been 
waiting  for  this  moment,  crossed  the 
Green,    and    solemnly    shook   the    old 

252 


The   Last  Home 

man's  hand.  They  formed  into  a  strag- 
gling procession  behind  him.  They 
were  all  silent,  for  they  had  the  sense 
that  they  were  attending  Gill's  funeral. 

A  mile  away,  at  the  top  of  the  hill, 
the  procession  halted.  From  that  point 
the  grim  walls  of  Barford  Workhouse 
could  be  seen. 

Gill  stood  quite  silent  regarding  them 
for  a  moment.  He  then  began  to  fum- 
ble in  his  pocket,  at  last  producing  his 
well-worn  tuning-fork. 

'  Friends,'  said  he,  '  let  us  remember 
the  Lord's  mercies  once  more  before 
we  part.  'Tis  a  sad  road  I'm  takin', 
but  the  dear  Lord  trod  a  sadder  road 
for  me. ' 

He  struck  the  key-note,  and  with  a 
preliminary  cough,  raised  the  tune. 
The  words  were  the  Doxology,  and  the 
tune  Old  Hundred. 


253 


XIV 

AN  INNOCENT  IMPOSTOR 

EVEN  the    quietest   backwaters   of 
life  have  their  occasional  sensa- 
tions,   and  for  that   matter   I   have   no 
doubt  that  the  social  politics  confined 
within  the  round  of  a  dew-drop  would 
prove  of  supreme   interest,    if  we   had 
any   means    of    comprehending    them. 
The  old  Meeting-house  at  Barford  was 
certainly  one  of  the  quietest  places  on 
earth.      He  who  passed  under  the  brick 
archway  which  opened  on  its  pebbled 
square,   across  which    ran    one    narrow 
paved  path  to  the  Meeting-house,    and 
another   to   the   manse,    insensibly   be- 
came the  citizen  of  a  realm  of  peace. 
The  very  oak  that  grew  in  the  centre 
of  this  enclosed  square  had  a  cloistral 
sedateness   of  appearance,    and  on   the 
windiest  day,  when  boughs  were  snap- 

254 


An   Innocent  Impostor 

ping  everywhere  in  the  open  country- 
side, it  indulged  only  in  a  subdued 
murmur  of  protesting  foliage.  Yet 
once  the  old  Meeting-house  was  the 
centre  of  profound  perturbation,  and 
its    cause   was   old    Mary    Maybury. 

There  had  always  been  a  touch  of 
innocent  mystery  about  Mary,  because 
the  most  diligent  inquisition  had  en- 
tirely failed  to  discover  what  were  her 
real  means  of  support.  She  lived  in  a 
very  tiny  house  on  the  road  to  Plum- 
ridge  Green,  and  quite  alone.  She  had 
no  friends  in  Barford,  and  apparently 
cared  to  make  none.  Few  people  saw 
anything  of  her  during  the  week,  but 
on  Sundays  she  never  failed  to  join 
the  congregation  at  the  Meeting-house. 
She  sat  in  a  corner  seat,  far  back  under 
the  gallery,  and  followed  the  service 
with  devout  attention.  When  she  had 
first  come  to  the  Meeting-house,  there 
had  been  a  lively  discussion  in  the 
Dorcas  Society  upon  her  claims  to  gen- 
tility. Two  or  three  female  inquisitors 
of  more  than   usually  sagacious  minds 

255 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

had  caused  themselves  to  be  shown  into 
her  seat  on  Sundays,  on  purpose  to 
study  her  dress,  which  they  grudgingly 
acknowledged  to  be  real  '  morry  antik. ' 
But  they  also  reported  that  it  was  much 
frayed  in  the  folds,  and  must  have  been 
made  at  least  twenty  years  before,  and 
showed  indisputable  signs  of  having 
been  turned  more  than  once.  More- 
over, it  was  clear  that  this  was  the  only 
dress  of  any  importance  which  she  pos- 
sessed, since  no  one  had  ever  seen  her 
appear  in  public  in  any  other.  This 
fact  settled  the  question  of  Mary's  po- 
sition in  society.  It  was  clear  that  she 
was  only  a  poor  person  with  one  good 
dress. 

From  this  time  she  quietly  faded  out 
of  notice.  Occasionally  a  strange  min- 
ister, taking  a  day's  services  at  Bar- 
ford,  happened  to  observe  her,  and  asked 
who  that  lady  with  the  soft  grey  hair 
and  dark  eyes  was  ?  The  answer  would 
be,  '  Oh,  that  's  only  old  Mary  May- 
bury  ' ;  and  if  he  happened  to  be  a  dis- 
cerning man  he  recognised  that  he  had 

256 


An  Innocent  Impostor 

committed  a  social  blunder.  There  is 
a  world  of  force  in  the  word  'only,' 
when.it  is  uttered  in  an  intonation  of 
grieved  surprise,  to  the  accompani- 
ment of  lifted  eyebrows  and  the  clat- 
ter of  '  bugles  '  shaken  on  scornful 
black    bonnets. 

Now,  it  happened  that  one  day  after 
service  Mary  was  seen  to  go  into  the 
vestry,  instead  of  gliding  out  of  her 
seat  silently  in  her  usual  fashion,  and 
going  meekly  home  to  her  little  house 
on  the  Plumridge  road.  This  might 
have  been  forgotten  as  a  passing  eccen- 
tricity, but  the  next  Sunday  the  same 
thing  happened  again.  On  this  Sun- 
day the  grocer  (Mumsley)  followed  her 
into  the  vestry,  and  it  was  noticed  that 
the  door  was  shut  for  half  an  hour. 

During  the  following  week  it  was 
observed  that  Mary  called  twice  at  the 
manse  and  once  at  Mumsley's.  The 
week  after  she  was  seen  going  to  the 
Red  House.  A  day  or  two  later  it  was 
reported  that  Priscilla  Splashett  had 
gone  to  Mary's  house,  and  it  was  be- 
17  257 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

lieved  she  had  taken  tea  there.  On 
Thursday,  which  was  Mumsley's  day 
for  driving  round  the  villages  to  the 
north  of  Barford,  he  was  met  late  in 
the  evening  jogging  along  the  Plum- 
ridge  road,  which  was  entirely  out  of 
his  way,  and  it  was  certain  that  he  tied 
his  pony  to  Mary's  gate,  and  was  clos- 
eted with  her  quite  ten  minutes. 

Mumsley's  wife,  who  was  noted  for 
keeping  her  lord  and  master  in  proper 
order,  of  course  heard  of  these  proceed- 
ings, and  was  betrayed  into  strong  lan- 
guage on  the  subject. 

'  I  'd  like  to  know  what  you  mean  by 
collogueing  with  Mary  Maybury?  '  she 
said. 

'  It  's  business,'  said  Mumsley,  in  his 
most  impressive  ecclesiastical  manner, 
'  business  (ahem)  connected  with  the 
church. ' 

'  Fiddlesticks,'  she  retorted.  '  You 
don't  tell  me  that  your  proper  way 
home  from  Colbury  is  round  Plumridge 
Green,  or  that  church  business  is  so 
pressing  you   must   needs  be  out  after 

258 


An   Innocent  Impostor 

dark  at  Mary  Maybury's  to  do  it. 
What  's  she  got  to  do  with  church 
business?  ' 

'  Maria, '  he  said  solemnly,  '  you 
surely  ain't  jealous  of  old  Mary?' 

'Jealous,  indeed!  I'm  surprised, 
Mumsley,  you  should  say  such  a  thing. 
Not  but  what  Mary  isn't  near  as  old  as 
she  looks,  for  all  her  hair  's  grey.  'T  is 
my  belief  you  've  got  some  secret  be- 
twixt you,  an'  I'll  be  bound  it  isn't 
creditable  to  you. ' 

'The  minister  knows  all  about  it,' 
said  Mumsley,  with  a  deprecatory  shake 
of  the  head. 

'  Then  all  the  more  shame  to  him  is 
what  I  say.  I  shall  tell  him  on  Sun- 
day that  I  'm  not  going  to  have  my 
man  a-collogueing  with  no  Mary  May- 
burys,  church  business  or  no  church 
business.  I  give  you  warnin'  that  if 
this  goes  on  I  'm  goin'  to  be  nasty, 
Mumsley.  I  ain't  often  nasty,  but 
when  I  am  —  ' 

'  You  are  nasty,  Maria, '  Mumsley 
said   dryly. 

259 


Thro'    Lattice-Windows 

At  this  point  Mumsley,  foreseeing 
the  end,  took  his  wife  into  his  confi- 
dence, the  immediate  result  of  which 
was  that  the  next  evening  Mary  took 
tea  with  the  Mumsleys,  and  by  the  end 
of  the  week  her  story  was  all  over  the 
place. 

The  scene  next  Sunday  at  the  Meet- 
ing-house was  quite  dramatic.  People 
stared  at  Mary  with  unaffected  curios- 
ity, and  after  service  many  persons  who 
had  never  spoken  to  her  in  their  lives 
pressed  forward  to  shake  her  hand. 

'Have  'ee  heard  anythin'  of  him?' 
one  and  another  whispered.  To  which 
Mary  replied  only  with  a  patient  up- 
ward glance  of  her  fine  eyes  and  a  shake 
of  her  head. 

'  To  think, '  said  one  of  the  group 
at  the  Meeting-house  door,  as  they 
watched  her  passing  out  under  the  arch- 
way, '  that  old  Mary  should  hev'  a  hus- 
band all  the  time,  and  him  one  that  has 
sat  at  the  table  wi'  the  great  ones  o' 
the  earth. ' 

'  Companion  to  a  lord,  weren't  he?  ' 
260 


An   Innocent  Impostor 

'  Bosom  companion,  by  all  accounts. 
As  fine  an'  handsome  a  man  as  ever 
were.  Mumsley  hev'  seen  his  portrait, 
an'  says  as  he  do  look  the  ginelman 
every  inch. ' 

'  But  a  bad  'un,  I  'm  told.' 

'Ay,  ay,  a  rare  bad  'un, — like  to 
Jereboam,  the  son  of  Nebat,  who  made 
Israel  to  sin.  Even  so  hev'  he  led  that 
poor  young  lord  into  all  sorts  o'  mis- 
chief, till  last  o'  all—' 

'Lords  is  a  weak  lot,'  interposed 
Simon  Tann,  who  lost  no  opportunity 
of  declaring  his  democratic  sentiments. 
'  Here  an'  there  you  finds  a  good  'un, 
but  they  're  mostly  like  a  spindly  rad- 
ish-bed that  wants  thinning  out.' 

'  Some  do  say  as  it  were  the  lord  as 
were  Mary's  husband.' 

'  No,  no,  that  don't  stand  to  reason, 
nohow.  He  were  a  squire's  son,  how- 
iver,  an'  married  her  when  she  was  a 
young  girl,  an'  then  runned  away  from 
her,  to  go  off  with  this  poor  young  lord 
into  all  kinds  o'  wickedness.  'T  is 
grief  as  hev'  made  her  'air  so  white.' 

261 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

1  It  turned  in  a  single  night,  I  've 
heard  tell.' 

'You  don't  say?  Well,  I've  heard 
o'  it  turning  quick,  but  never  so  quick 
as  that.  Moastly  it  falls  out.  I  know'd 
a  man  whose  head  was  as  bald  as  an 
egg.  He  were  a  police,  an'  he  said  as 
his  head  were  like  it  were,  all  through 
anxiety  to  catch  some  one  a-doin'  some- 
thin'  they  hadn't  oughter  do,  and 
wouldn't  do  nohow.  He  said  as  it 
were  the  moral  condition  o'  the  masses 
as  made  him  bald. ' 

'  Well,'  said  the  member  of  the  Dor- 
cas Society  who  had  first  spread  the 
report  about  the  '  morry  antik  '  dress 
being  frayed  at  the  folds,  '  for  my  part, 
I  always  knew  as  old  Mary  were  a  lady. 
You  never  see  a  common  person  in  a 
dress  like  she  do  wear,  unless  she  've 
stole  it,  an'  then  she  'd  be  afeard  to 
wear  it. ' 

The  little  group  dispersed,  and  in 
many  a  quiet  house  at  Barford  that  day 
there  was  animated  conversation  on  the 
romantic    wrongs    of    Mary    Maybury. 

262 


An   Innocent   Impostor 

When  Mr.  Shannon  preached  in  the 
evening  upon  the  subject  of  the  heart 
knowing  its  own  bitterness,  it  was  felt 
at  once  that  he  had  Mary  in  his  eye, 
and  at  one  point  in  the  sermon  there 
was  something  as  near  a  murmur  of 
sympathetic  approval  as  etiquette  per- 
mitted. 

But  while  Barford  knew  enough  of 
Mary's  story  to  feel  an  entirely  changed 
sentiment  toward  her,  it  was  very  far 
from  knowing  all.  Mr.  Shannon  and 
Priscilla  Splashett  were  the  recipients 
of  her  closest  confidences.  The  day 
when  Mary  first  entered  the  vestry, 
and  asked  the  minister  to  read  a  letter 
which  she  produced  from  her  purse,  was 
merely  the  first  act  in  a  long  drama. 
The  letter  bore  no  postmark,  and  pur- 
ported to  come  from  Amsterdam.  It 
was  from  her  husband,  and  stated  that 
he  was  ill  and  penniless,  Lord  Cleve- 
land having  gone  on  to  Vienna.  It 
hinted  darkly  that  there  were  reasons 
why  he  could  not  return  to  England, 
that    in   this   illness    he    had    seen  the 

263 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

error  of  his  ways,  and  that  only  twenty 
pounds  was  needed  to  insure  in  him  a 
complete  change  of  life. 

The  minister  was  bewildered.  This 
collation  of  titled  names  and  distant 
cities  with  humble  Mary  Maybury  took 
his  breath  away.  But  no  doubt  as  to 
the  truth  of  her  story  crossed  his  mind. 
There  was  something  in  the  very  atti- 
tude of  the  woman  who  stood  before 
him  so  pathetically  helpless  and  im- 
ploring, that  he  was  deeply  touched. 
He  had  often  heard  Bunting  of  Bel- 
chester  speak  of  the  strange  dramas  of 
human  life  that  had  been  revealed  to 
him  in  his  city  pastorate,  and  now  he 
felt,  with  an  almost  pleasurable  thrill 
of  astonishment,  that  he  himself  was 
touching  the  depths  of  a  human  trag- 
edy. Besides  which,  there  is  a  subtle 
happiness  in  being  made  the  confidant 
of  a  long-concealed  secret,  an  implied 
compliment  in  being  asked  to  advise 
upon  a  tangled  problem.  Mr.  Shannon 
gave  one  look  at  the  troubled  figure  that 
stood  before  him,   and  almost  thanked 

264 


An  Innocent  Impostor 

God  out  of  his  simple  heart  that  the 
opportunity  had  been  given  him  to  do 
something  for  one  of  the  world's  many 
victims  of  injustice  and  wrong. 

'  But  why  did  he  leave  you  ?  '  he 
asked   timidly. 

'  I  loved  him,  but  he  never  loved 
me, '  said  Mary,  with  a  burst  of  tears. 
'He  didn't  believe  in  religion,  and 
wouldn't  let  me  go  to  church — that 
was  the  first  difference  between  us. 
He  took  all  my  money  —  I  was  glad  for 
him  to  have  it.  Oh,  if  you  could  have 
seen  him  as  he  then  was  —  so  young,  so 
handsome. ' 

'  But  how  have  you  lived  all  these 
years  ?  ' 

Mary  blushed  deeply,  and  hung  her 
head. 

'  I  know  I  can  trust  you,  sir, '  she 
said.  '  I  wouldn't  have  any  one  know 
this  for  the  world.  I  write  tales  for  the 
"  Saturday  Comet. "  They  're  poor  stuff, 
—  nothing  I  would  like  you  to  read; 
but  they're  the  best  I  can  do.  And 
almost  all  I  earn  I  send  to  him.   .   .   . 

265 


Thro'    Lattice-Windows 

I  sent  him  a  hundred  pounds  last  year, 
and  had  only  thirty  left  for  myself.  I 
know  he  gambles  with  it,  but  he  might 
be  driven  to  something  worse  without 
it.  Ah,  if  you  only  knew  my  Philip, 
you  would  know,  sir,  that  a  woman 
could  not  help  loving  him,  whatever 
wrong  he  had  done  her.  You  would 
understand  how  gladly  she  would  work 
her  fingers  to  the  bone  for  him. ' 

She  covered  her  face  with  her  hands, 
and  sobbed.  Mr.  Shannon's  own  eyes 
were  wet.  He  bitterly  blamed  himself 
that  this  woman  should  have  been  in 
his  congregation  so  long,  and  that  he 
had  scarcely  called  on  her  more  than 
once.  What  magnanimity  —  to  work 
night  and  day  to  support  a  husband  who 
despised  her!  Of  what  patient  heroism 
women  were  capable  !  There  were  truly 
more  saints  in  the  world  than  the  world 
suspects,  and  Mary  Maybury  was  one  of 
them. 

The  next  day  two  books  were  left  at 
the  manse.  They  were  novels  repub- 
lished from  the  pages  of  the  '  Saturday 

266 


An   Innocent  Impostor 

Comet. '  No  doubt  they  were  poor  stuff, 
but  the  minister,  who  had  scarcely  read 
a  novel  in  his  life,  read  them  through 
with  eager  interest,  finding  the  secret 
of   unheard   of   magnanimity    in    every 

line. 

That  same  evening  Priscilla  Splash- 
ett  called.  It  seemed  that  Mrs.  May- 
bury  had  revealed  to  her  that  morning 
the  latest  phase  of  her  tragic  story. 
Philip  was  in  England.  Lord  Cleve- 
land, who  was  his  evil  genius,  had 
again  discovered  him.  It  seemed  that 
the  two  men  had  been  implicated  in 
some  gigantic  swindle,  and  arrest  was 
imminent.  What  if  Philip  should  come 
to  Barford?  Ought  they  to  conceal 
him  for  Mary's  sake,  until  he  could  be 
safely  smuggled  out  of  England  ? 

Here  was  a  dilemma  for  a  sober  dis- 
senting minister,  and  an  aged  single 
lady  of  spotless  name.  But  they  were 
both  so  completely  under  the  spell  of 
Mary  Maybury  that  they  actually  dis- 
cussed whether,  in  such  a  case,  they 
would  not  be  justified  in  using  the  loft 

267 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

of  the  Meeting-house  as  a  hiding-place 
for  a  hunted  man  who  only  wanted 
twenty  pounds  to  lead  an  entirely  new 
life. 

When  it  was  quite  dark  they  stole  out 
like  conspirators,  and  went  to  Mary's 
cottage.  Mary  met  them  with  the  most 
tragic  look  of  fear  upon  her  face. 

'Hush,'  she  said,  laying  her  finger 
on  her  lip,  '  I  have  seen  him. ' 

'He's  not  been  here?'  whispered 
the  horror-struck  minister. 

'  Yes, '  she  replied  in  a  faint  voice. 
'  Oh,  it  is  as  I  always  thought  it  was. 
He  has  been  more  sinned  against  than 
sinning.  It  was  Lord  Cleveland  who 
led  him  into  crime.  Oh,  my  husband, 
my  husband  !  ' 

She  laid  her  head  upon  the  table, 
and  sobbed  softly,  as  if  afraid  of  being 
overheard.  When  she  lifted  her  face 
there  was  a  fine  light  upon  it. 

'  I  've  given  him  everything  I  have,' 
she  said.  '  There  's  not  a  penny  in  the 
house.  He's  had  it  all.  But,  oh,  he 
richly  paid  me  for  all  that  I  've  done 

268 


An   Innocent  Impostor 

for  him!  He  kissed  me  —  the  first  kiss 
for  twenty  years.  And,  thank  God, 
he  's  safe.  He  's  gone  on  to  St.  Colam, 
and  by  to-morrow  noon  will  be  on  his 
way  to  America.  O  my  Philip!  How 
changed  he  was,  —  so  pale  and  thin,  and 
his  hair  quite  white!  I  shall  never  see 
him  any  more  on  earth,  but  I  will  pray 
to  meet  him  in  heaven.' 

Priscilla  Splashett  was  profoundly 
touched.  She  felt  that  a  woman  of 
such  a  noble  order  as  this  deserved  her 
warmest  friendship.  She  had  vague 
ideas  of  devoting  her  future  life  to  her 
consolation.  She  invited  the  forlorn 
woman  to  come  and  stay  with  her  at 
the  Red  House  for  a  few  days. 

The  next  morning  Mary  Maybury 
became  a  guest  at  the  Red  House, 
and  her  social  distinction  was  assured. 
When  she  came  to  service  next  Sun- 
day, and  sat  in  the  big  baize-lined  pew, 
between  Dorcas  and  Priscilla  Splashett, 
any  doubts  as  to  her  real  gentility  were 
finally  laid  at  rest. 

But,  as  it  turned  out,  this  social  tri- 
269 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

umph  was  her  undoing.  For  that  very- 
morning  it  happened  that  lawyer  Tre- 
varton  who  usually  went  to  church  with 
a  fine  eye  for  keeping  on  good  terms 
with  his  church  clients,  while  his  wife 
looked  after  his  less  important  busi- 
ness interests  among  the  Meeting-house 
folk,  came  to  hear  Mr.  Shannon.  He 
knew  every  one  in  Barford,  and  noticed 
at  once  the  presence  of  Mary  Maybury 
in  the  Splashett's  pew.  After  service 
he  said  to  his  wife,  as  they  walked 
home,  '  Wasn't  that  old  Mary  Maybury 
sitting  with  the  Splashetts? ' 

'  Yes,  it  was. ' 

'  Well,  that 's  a  new  move,  isn't  it? 
What  does  it  mean  ?  ' 

Mrs.  Trevarton  told  him  all  she 
knew,  concluding  with  the  statement 
that  Mary  was  an  authoress,  who  wrote 
stories  in  the  'Saturday  Comet.' 

Trevarton  laughed  long  and  loud. 
'I'll  wager  she  never  had  a  line  of 
hers  printed  in  her  life,'  he  said. 
'  You  must  be  a  lot  of  ninnies  to  swal- 
low that  tale. ' 

270 


An   Innocent  Impostor 

On  the  Monday,  as  he  was  looking 
over  some  papers  before  going  to  Bel- 
chester,  his  eye  caught  the  name  of 
Loveridge.  '  Why  that 's  the  man,'  he 
thought,  '  who  is  editor  of  the  Comet. 
If  I  get  a  chance  I  '11  look  him  up  to- 
day, and  ask  him  to  show  me  the  works 
of  Mary  Maybury.  It  strikes  me  it  '11 
be  a  good  joke. ' 

When  he  came  back  at  night  he  said 
to  his  wife,  'Well,  you'll  be  pleased 
to  hear  that  they  've  never  heard  the 
name  of  Mary  Maybury  at  the  Comet 
office.  As  for  the  books  you  showed 
me,  they  were  written  by  a  clergyman's 
daughter  in  Barchester,  whose  name  is 
well  known.  As  they  are  published 
anonymously,  I  suppose  old  Mary 
thought  there  would  be  no  danger  in 
laying  claim  to  them.' 

The  next  day  Mrs.  Trevarton  im- 
parted this  intelligence  to  the  minis- 
ter. He  was  much  puzzled,  and  went 
at  once  to  see  Priscilla  Splashett. 

'  Well,  I  've  thought  it  a  little  curi- 
ous that  I  've  never  seen  Mary  writing 

271 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

anything  during  the  week  she's  been 
here,'  said  Friscilla  cautiously. 

Just  at  this  moment  Mary  came  into 
the  room,  and  there  must  have  been 
something  in  the  altered  aspect  of  the 
two  faces  turned  toward  her  that  warned 
her.  She  turned  very  pale.  '  I  hope 
you  have  n't  brought  me  any  bad  news,' 
she  murmured. 

'  Only  this, '  said  Mr.  Shannon,  speak- 
ing in  a  high  strained  voice;  'that 
you  told  me  you  wrote  for  the  Comet, 
and  the  editor  says  he  never  heard  of 
you. ' 

'  Yes,'  she  said  faintly,  '  that  was  a 
mistake. ' 

'  Was  there  anything  else  in  what 
you  said  that  was  a  mistake? '  said  the 
minister  sternly. 

There  was  a  moment  of  terrible  si- 
lence. Then,  all  at  once,  there  was  a 
rustle  of  the  '  morry  antik  '  dress,  and 
the  trembling  woman  fell  upon  her 
knees.  She  knelt  against  the  table, 
and  covered  her  face  with  her  hands. 

'  Oh,  you  will  never  forgive  me,'  she 
272 


An   Innocent  Impostor 

wailed.  '  It  was  none  of  it  true  —  not 
a  word.  I  never  had  a  husband.  .  .  . 
Years  ago  I  lived  in  a  house  as  lady's 
maid  and  knew  a  man  called  Philip 
Maybury.     The  rest  ...  I  made  it  up. ' 

'  But  why?  Why  should  you  in- 
dulge in  such  deception  ?  ' 

'  I  was  very  lonely.  No  one  spoke 
to  me.  And  my  heart  ached  for  sym- 
pathy. I  wanted  to  know  people  .  .  . 
to  feel  that  some  one  cared  for  me  a 
little.  When  I  first  came  to  you,  sir, 
I  did  not  intend  to  go  so  far.  But  the 
story  I  told  grew  upon  me,  till  I  half 
believed  it  .  .  .  and  then  I  durst  n't  go 
back.  It  was  such  a  new  sweet  thing 
for  a  lonely  woman  like  me  to  be  loved 
and  pitied  .  .  .  that  .  .  .  that  I  felt 
.  .  . '  Her  voice  failed,  and  she  sobbed 
pitifully. 

'  You  must  leave  this  house  at  once,' 
said  Priscilla,  her  voice  trembling  with 
anger. 

'Yes,  I  will,   ma'am,'  she  answered 

meekly.       '  But  I  '11  never  forget  your 

kindness.   ...    It  '11    be   something  to 
18  273 


Thro'    Lattice-Windows 

remember  in  the  long  lonely  days  that 
lie  before  me. ' 

'  Perhaps  she  's  to  be  pitied  after  all, ' 
said  the  minister. 

But  Priscilla  only  regarded  him  with 
a  haughty  frown.  She  swept  out  of  the 
room,  and  went  upstairs  to  see  that 
Mary  put  '  her  things  '  together  at  once. 
As  she  went  she  said  to  herself,  '  A 
woman  like  that  is  capable  of  stealing 
the  silver  spoons  if  she  isn't  watched.' 

It  was  many  months  before  Mary  was 
seen  in  the  Meeting-house  again,  and 
when  she  came  she  sat  with  humbled 
head  in  her  old  pew  under  the  gallery. 
People  wondered  what  it  all  meant,  but 
even  Trevarton  had  pity  on  her,  and 
held  his  tongue.  It  was  not  until  Mary 
Maybury  was  laid  in  her  lonely  grave, 
on  the  cold  side  of  Barford  churchyard, 
that  the  true  facts  of  her  imposture 
became  known,  and  by  that  time  they 
were  only  visible  through  the  softened 
perspectives  of  time  and  compassion. 


274 


XV 

RUE    WITH  A    DIFFERENCE 

IT  seemed  a  peculiarity  of  the  clear 
quiet  air  of  Barford  that  it  gave  a 
certain  flavour  of  individuality  to  human 
character,  an  aromatic  pungency,  as  it 
were.  From  the  large  outside  world  of 
multitudinous  cities  that  air  borrowed 
not  a  ripple  or  a  tremor,  and  so  human 
character  had  time  to  crystallise  slowly 
into  forms  that  were  singularly  definite 
and  stable.  Naturally,  mere  outside 
visitors  saw  nothing  of  this,  and  rarely 
suspected  it.  They  were  agreed  in  call- 
ing Barford  a  dull  little  town.  They 
saw  certain  homely  figures  pass  up  and 
down  the  streets  —  sometimes  Johnny 
Button,  with  his  shambling  walk  and 
wise  smile,  sometimes  Davy  Lumsden, 
with  his  air  of  melancholy  reproach 
against  the  universe  at  large,  and  at  all 
times    Sammy  Nunn,  the  postman,  with 

2  75 


Thro'    Lattice-Windows 

his  quick  perky  amble  and  monstrous 
air  of  self-importance  —  and  they  smiled 
with  town-bred  pity.  They  had  much 
of  the  feeling  that  a  child  has  in  in- 
specting an  ant-hill :  it  is  a  curious 
thing,  and  unlikely  facts  are  told  about 
it,  but  it  is  all  very  small,  and  its  bustle 
of  minute  life  quite  beneath  notice. 
Now  and  again  a  slightly  keener  eye 
discerned  something  quaint  about  these 
Barford  men  and  women,  but  the  vision 
was  rare  and  fugitive.  Upon  the  whole, 
the  visitor  was  quite  sure  that  he  would 
find  life  insupportable  in  such  a  place. 

Perhaps  he  was  right,  for  in  these 
quiet  places  of  the  earth  life  does  not 
jig  and  strut  upon  a  stage,  but  opens 
itself  slowly  to  the  eye,  with  the  fine 
reticence  of  the  grey  dawn,  and  moves 
slowly  ^ike  its  own  level  rivers,  and  does 
not  imagine  itself  either  capable  or 
worthy  of  deliberate  notice.  So,  no 
doubt,  it  all  seems  dull  enough  to  eyes 
scorched  by  gaslight,  and  brains  de- 
based and  robbed  of  edge  by  the  con- 
tinuous perusal  of  the  daily  paper.     Yet 

276 


Rue  with  a  Difference 

there  is  one  thing  that  the  most  casual 
visitor  might  remember,  viz.,  that  even 
as  the  tiniest  moorland  pool  can  reflect 
the  sky  and  the  stars  quite  as  perfectly 
as  the  widest  ocean,  so  the  prime  ele- 
ments of  human  nature  exist  in  un- 
abated vitality  and  strength  in  these 
more  secluded  corners  of  the  world. 
Indeed,  it  may  be  further  argued,  and 
with  truth,  that,  if  you  want  human 
nature  in  its  elemental  freshness,  it  is 
in  such  retreats  as  these  that  you  must 
seek  it.  Of  this  at  least  be  sure,  that 
human  life  in  all  its  pain  and  passion, 
its  agonies  of  baffled  love,  and  vehement 
revolt,  and  dry-eyed  endurance  of  wast- 
ing secret  grief,  is  not  confined  alone 
to  the  swarming  hive  of  cities.  These 
things  happen  also  in  the  places  we 
call  dull. 

Of  course  it  does  not  follow  that 
these  Barford  folk  were  all  of  equal 
interest :  there  were  the  noticeable  and 
the  unnoticeable,  as  elsewhere,  and  the 
discriminating  eye  was  needed  in  a  right 
apprehension  of  their  qualities  and  vir- 

277 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

tues.  For  example,  Sammy  Nunn,  the 
postman,  was  quite  an  unnoticeable 
little  man,  in  spite  of  his  importance 
as  a  public  functionary,  and  his  own 
extravagant  estimate  of  that  impor- 
tance. 

But  not  so  Simon  Dellow,  the  black- 
smith, working  like  a  lonely  Vulcan 
at  his  forge  near  Plumridge  Common. 
Even  strangers,  stopping  for  a  moment 
at  the  forge,  recognised  a  primeval 
shapeliness  about  the  labouring  giant, 
and  the  village  children  scattered  in 
terror  at  the  smouldering  malice  of  his 
eye.  Because  there  was  no  better  smith 
for  miles  round,  Dellow  did  a  thriving 
trade ;  but  there  was  something  in  the 
grim  taciturnity  of  the  huge  man  that 
made  the  forge  a  place  of  fear.  Even 
Davy  Lumsden,  who  boasted  that  he 
rarely  paid  for  anything  its  proper  price, 
never  ventured  to  dispute  over  half- 
pence with  Dellow.  On  one  occasion, 
indeed,  he  had  been  known  in  his  trepi- 
dation to  pay  Dellow  twopence  too 
much,    rather    than    endure  any   longer 

278 


Rue  with  a   Difference 

the  scathing  criticisms  of  his  own  char- 
acter which  Dellow  uttered  as  he  pushed 
his  mended  wheelbarrow  toward  him. 
Dellow  afterwards  nailed  the  two  coins 
to  the  wall  of  his  forge,  where  he  often 
pointed  them  out  to  Davy's  intimates 
as  the  only  coins  ever  extracted  from 
Davy's  pocket  without  a  just  equiva- 
lent. 

Swart  and  brawny,  terrible  and  lonely, 
the  great  smith  often  laboured  on  far 
into  the  night,  for  the  most  part  en- 
gaged in  fashioning  a  certain  pair  of 
iron  gates  of  intricate  design  for  the 
squire ;  and  pray  who  was  to  guess  that 
Simon  Dellow  was  beating  out  his  heart 
upon  his  anvil,  and  was  putting  all  the 
repressed  passion  of  a  baffled  love  into 
this  endless  midnight  task  of  his?  Fear 
and  strength  dwelt  visibly  beside  that 
glowing  forge,  but  one  would  not  have 
supposed  that  love  tarried  there  too. 
Yet  those  who  could  recall  a  certain 
episode  of  forty  years  before  might  have 
guessed  the  secret  of  Dellow's  lonely 
life  and  untamed  nature  ;  and  they  would 

279 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

have  seen  what  the  blacksmith  always 
saw,  —  the  face  of  Margaret  Nunn  for 
ever  outlined  in  the  red  blaze,  and  her 
form  for  ever  moving  in  the  shadows  of 
the  forge. 

Margaret  Nunn  —  Margy,  as  she  was 
generally  called  —  was  one  of  those 
women  whose  very  appearance  makes 
town-bred  people  tired  of  streets.  She 
was  as  truly  a  pastoral  product  as  the 
large-eyed  cows  you  could  see  any  June 
morning  clustered  in  the  shadow  of  Bar- 
ford  bridge,  and  shared  with  them  a 
wise  passivity.  She  would  have  been  a 
very  beautiful  old  lady  if  suitably  ar- 
rayed, though  some  of  us  thought 
nothing  could  possibly  have  toned  bet- 
ter with  her  apple-coloured  cheeks  than 
the  spotless  white  sun-bonnet  which  she 
wore  for  at  least  eight  months  of  the 
year.  Even  her  plain  print  dress  had  a 
certain  noble  grace  about  its  folds,  an 
antique  largeness  and  severity  of  line. 
Margy,  going  up  the  Plumridge  road  on 
a  fresh  summer  morning,  with  her  bas- 
ket   of  dew-sprinkled    flowers    on    her 

280 


Rue  with  a  Difference 

arm,  seemed  a  part  of  Nature  herself,  a 
large-limbed  Eve  who  had  always  lived 
in  a  garden. 

Sammy  Nunn,  the  postman,  was  very 
proud  of  his  mother,  as  he  had  every 
reason  to  be.  He  often  indulged  in 
private  reflections  on  the  subject  which 
were  good  for  his  soul,  since  they  nour- 
ished in  him  the  temper  of  humility; 
although  they  were  entirely  destitute 
of  public  significance. 

'  'T  is  queer  a  woman  like  her  should 
only  ha'  had  one  child,  an'  such  a  little 
'un  as  I  be.  'T  is  mortal  queer.  I  'd 
oughter  to  ha'  been  bigger,  I  did,'  was 
the  sum  of  these  reflections. 

Sammy,  even  when  his  beard  grew, 
still  had  to  lift  his  chin  a  trifle  to  kiss 
this  majestic  mother  of  his.  By  way  of 
adjusting  matters  he  had  married  a  very 
small  woman,  for  whom  he  had  never 
been  able  to  cultivate  a  proper  respect. 
'  But  then,'  as  he  said,  '  it  were  n't  likely 
as  I  could  ha'  found  another  woman 
like  mother,  an'  if  I  had,  I  should  ha' 
been  dreadful  afeard  to  ha'  married  her. 

281 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

Women  do  run  small  now-a-days,  an' 
't  is  convenicnter  as  they  should  to 
match  the  men.  An',  arter  all,  small 
pertaties  eat  just  so  well  as  big  'uns.' 

Sammy,  whose  course  of  life  tended 
to  a  philosophic  consideration  of  the 
human  passions,  owing  to  his  constant 
commerce  in  love  letters,  often  found 
himself  reflecting  on  his  mother  in  her 
capacity  of  a  woman  to  be  wooed  and 
loved,  and  usually  with  astonishment 
and  wonder.  Sammy  had  never  known 
his  father,  but  the  gossip  of  Barford  had 
long  ago  delicately  hinted  to  him  that 
he  was  a  ne'er-do-well.  Margy  Nunn 
never  spoke  of  her  dead  husband.  She 
seemed  to  be  so  perfectly  content  with- 
out masculine  attentions,  that  it  was 
difficult  to  imagine  that  they  had  ever 
meant  anything  to  her.  Yet  there  must 
have  been  one  or  two  persons  in  Barford 
who  could  remember  the  day,  long  be- 
fore her  marriage  with  '  Ostler  Nunn  ' 
—  as  he  was  known  —  when  Margy 
had  danced  on  Plumridge  Green  one 
May-day  with  Simon   Dellow.     Dellow, 

282 


Rue  with   a   Difference 

the  blacksmith,  was  in  those  days  a 
young  and  handsome  Hercules,  and 
many  people  had  said  on  that  May-day 
that  a  finer  sight  was  never  seen  than 
Margy  and  he  dancing  together  under 
the  bluest  of  blue  skies,  and  with  the 
stateliest  grace.  Every  one  prophesied 
a  marriage  within  the  year.  But  for 
some  reason  which  was  not  explained, 
it  never  happened.  It  was  supposed 
that  there  had  been  a  deadly  quarrel 
between  the  two ;  anyway,  soon  after- 
wards Margy  married  '  Ostler  Nunn,' 
whose  fondness  for  '  the  drink,'  was 
well  known.  Soon  after  Sammy's  birth 
'  Ostler  Nunn '  died,  and  since  then 
Margy  —  had  been  Margy.  She  grew 
flowers  as  no  one  else  could  grow  them, 
and  sold  them  in  the  market-place  twice 
a  week.  There  was  no  sort  of  rare 
plant  that  she  could  not  coax  into 
vigorous  life  in  her  little  sweet-smelling 
garden.  Age  came  on  her  without 
altering  anything,  except  that  the  thick 
bands  of  hair  turned  from  gold  to  silver. 
Her  face  retained  all  its  apple-coloured 

283 


Thro'   Lattice- Windows 

freshness,  and  her  form  all  its  gracious 
poise  and  dignity.  Dellow,  in  so  far  as 
the  orbit  of  his  life  had  for  a  moment 
intersected  Margaret's,  had  dropped 
completely  out  of  memory. 

Now  it  happened  one  June  morning 
as  Margy  stood  in  the  market-place 
behind  her  flowers,  Johnny  Button  and 
Davy  Lumsden  stopped  near  her  stall. 
Their  backs  were  turned  to  Margy,  and 
they  were  approaching  by  deliberate 
stages  a  condition  of  human  intercourse. 
They  had  already  made  brief  remarks 
upon  the  weather  and  the  crops,  and 
had  pronounced  verdicts,  in  the  shape 
of  curt  adjectives,  on  three  of  their 
neighbours.  Suddenly  Johnny  said, 
'Heard  about  Dellow?' 

'  I  seed  'en  last  night,'  said  Davy. 

'  Lor'  now,  you  don't  say ;  what  did 
'en  look  like  now?  ' 

'  Baddish,  powerful  baddish.  Should  n't 
ha'  know'd  'en.' 

•  How  did  it  happen?  Do  'ee  tell  us 
now.' 

*  The  old  tale,  workin'  late    o'    night, 

284 


Rue  with  a  Difference 

all  by  hisself,  at  them  fan-dangle  iron 
gates  o'  his'n.  Tis  supposed  as  some- 
thin'  in  the  fire  jumped  out  an'  blinded 
him.  Anyway,  blind  he  is,  an'  blind 
he  '11  be,  an'  them  gates  he 's  been  a- 
making  for  Squire  all  these  years  won't 
ever  be  finished  now.  Dellow  's  stone- 
blind,  he  is.' 

'  'T  is    sad,'    said    Johnny.     '  An'  him 
such  a  big  man  too.' 

'  So  you's  ha'  said  if  you  ha'  seed  'en, 
Johnny  —  sittin'  all  alone  he  were,  wi'  his 
'ands  folded  on  his  knees,  an'  groanin' 
awful.  "  Don't  none  o'  you  meetin'ers 
come  here  a  caterwaulin'  over  me,"  says 
he.  "  I  don't  want  to  hear  none  o' 
your  talk  about  God  doin'  what  He 
do  think  best.  There  ain't  no  God. 
An'  there  ain't  no  heaven,  though  it's 
like  enough  there 's  a  hell.  You  go 
back  and  sing  hymns  till  the  day  when 
you  're  struck  blind,  an'  come  an'  tell 
me  what  sorter  hymns  you  do  feel  like 
singin'  then."  ' 

"T  is  a  pity  Gill  is  in  the'Ouse,'  said 
Johnny    gloomily.      'If  Gill    could   ha* 

285 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

called  on  him,   maybe  as   he   might  ha' 
done  him  some  good.' 

'  Gill  could  n't  ha'  done  more  'en  I 
did,'  said  Davy  severely.  '  I  telled  him 
it  were  his  sins  as  had  found  him  out. 
I  talked  to  'en  real  honest,  but  he  was 
most  blasphemious.  'T  is  my  belief 
he  'd  ha'  struck  me  if  he  'd  know'd 
where  to   strike.' 

1  Ah,  't  is  n't  every  one  ha'  got  your 
talent  for  talkin'  to  the  sick,  Davy,' 
said  Johnny.  '  I  '11  be  bound  now  you 
felt  yourself  like  a  sorter  John  before 
Herod?' 

'  I  did,'  said  Davy,  without  the  least 
appreciation  of  Johnny's  iron)-.  '  An' 
I  let  'en  have  it  straight.  I  ain't  the 
man  to  shut  my  mouth  when  't  is  a 
duty  to  open  'en.' 

Johnny  smiled,  remembering  that 
there  was  a  day  not  very  long  before 
when  Davy  had  only  been  too  glad  to 
be  a  very  dumb  prophet  indeed  in  the 
presence  of  Dellow. 

'  An'  Dellow,  he  swore.  Well,  well,' 
said  Johnny,  with  a  keen  enjoyment  of 

286 


Rue  with  a  Difference 

the  situation.  Davy  Lumsden  as  a 
prophet  denouncing  the  sins  of  poor 
blind  Dellow  was  one  of  the  things  that 
came  to  Johnny  '  funny-like.' 

The  dialogue  would  no  doubt  have  ex- 
tended itself  to  many  interesting  ques- 
tions of  theology  and  morals,  but  at  that 
moment  a  voice  thrilled  both  men,  and 
caused  them  to  look  round.  Margaret 
Nunn  had  spoken.  She  was  standing 
very  erect  behind  her  flowers,  and  all 
the  soft  apple-bloom  had  faded  from 
her  cheeks. 

'  What 's  that  you  was  a-sayin'  of  ? 
What 's  that  about  Dellow  ?  ' 

'  Ah,  good-mornin',  Margy,'  said  Davy 
with  deliberation.  '  I  was  just  a-goin'  to 
tell  you  those  seeds  o'  yourn  ain't  turned 
out  so  well  as  were  expected.  They  're 
powerful  slow  a-comin'   up,  an'  — ' 

'  Never  mind  the  seeds,'  she  said 
with  an  impatient  gesture,  that  seemed 
to  make  her  twenty  years  younger. 
'  What 's  that  I  heerd  you  sayin'  about 
Dellow  ?  ' 

'  Oh,  Dellow  's  blind,  stone-blind.     I 
287 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

thought  you  'd  hev'  know'd.  'T  is  in 
the  paper  this  mornin'.  "  Shocking 
accident  at  a  forge,"  —  ah,  here  it  is,' 
said  Davy,  pulling  the  '  Belchester  News  ' 
from  his  pocket. 

'  I  can't  read.  Read  it  to  me,'  she 
said  imperiously. 

Davy  felt  for  his  spectacles,  which  it 
took  him  some  time  to  find.  He  then 
read  the  paragraph  aloud  with  cutting 
and  deliberate  emphasis.  It  ended  with 
the  words,  '  The  unfortunate  man  lives 
quite  alone,  and  is  supposed  to  be 
without  friends.' 

'  Thank  you,'  said  Margy  quietly, 
when  the  reading  was  done.  The  apple- 
bloom  was  beginning  to  steal  back  into 
her  cheeks.  Her  voice  startled  the  two 
men  by  the  rich  vibration  of  its  tone. 
Her  eyes,  usually  so  calm,  had  a  strange 
light  in  them.  There  was  a  soul  no 
one  had  known  anything  of  for  forty 
years  looking  out  of  them:  and  there  is 
a  sunrise  of  the  soul  as  well  as  of  the 
firmament. 

The  next  day  Sammy  Nunn,  clamber- 
288 


Rue  with  a  Difference 

ing  over  a  stile  which  led  to  a  farmhouse 
where  he  had  left  a  letter,  saw  a  white 
sun-bonnet  moving  rapidly  like  a  big 
white  moth  between  the  hedges  of  the 
Plumridge  road. 

'  I  'm  blessed  if  that  ain't  mother,'  he 
observed.  'I  wonder  what  she's  goin' 
to  Plumridge  Green  for  at  this  time  o' 
day.' 

Margy  was  indeed  on  her  way  to 
Plumridge  Green,  walking  fast  with 
her  usual  ample  stride.  She  carried  a 
basket  of  flowers  in  her  hand,  pinks 
and  roses  piled  in  profusion,  and  on 
the  top  of  all  a  sprig  of  the  little  yellow- 
flowered  rue,  which  she  had  coaxed 
to  growth  in  a  stony  corner  of  her 
garden.  Her  face  had  lost  its  calm  — 
the  calm  as  of  still  water  —  it  was  water 
ruffled.  There  was  something  of  touch- 
ing timidity,  of  tender  cunning  in  her 
aspect.  She  kept  close  to  the  hedge  as 
if  afraid  of  being  observed.  Her  lips 
were  closed  firmly,  under  the  stress  of 
some  intense  emotion. 

Sammy  watched  her  with  some  as- 
19  289 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

tonishment,  but  postal  duties  are  ar- 
ranged without  reference  to  human 
emotions,  and  he  dared  not  follow  her. 
If  he  had,  he  would  have  been  still 
more  astonished. 

After  a  while  she  left  the  road,  just 
where  the  Plumridge  houses  began,  and 
took  a  path  across  the  moor,  which  de- 
scribed a  semicircle  round  the  village. 
Leaving  this,  she  came  out  upon  the  St. 
Colam  end  of  the  village,  and  at  length 
arrived  at  a  point  where  four  roads  met. 
The  place  was  very  solitary,  even  on 
this  bright  fine  day.  A  great  elm  tow- 
ered in  the  windless  air.  Beneath  it  lay 
some  rusty  ploughshares  and  a  broken 
harrow.  A  silent  forge,  with  shuttered 
windows,  like  closed  eyes,  completed 
the  scene. 

Beside  the  deserted  forge  sprawled  a 
low,  whitewashed  house.  The  door  was 
open,  and  the  latticed  window  fastened 
back.  A  pair  of  hens  had  taken  posses- 
sion of  the  brick  doorstep.  A  cock, 
surprised  at  his  own  audacity,  and  wait- 
ing   for    applause,    strutted    inside    the 

290 


Rue  with  a  Difference 

doorway,  and  surveyed  the  room  con- 
temptuously. There  was  no  one  to 
drive  him  out,  and  he  knew  it. 

Margy  stepped  softly  to  the  open 
window,  and  looked  in.  But  softly  as 
she  trod  she  was  overheard,  and  a  deep 
bass  voice  shouted,  'Who's  there?' 
She  made  no  reply. 

'If  it's  some  o'  you  young  devils  up 
to  your  tricks  again,  I'll  catch  you  for 
sure  this  time,  an'  skin  you,'  shouted 
the  voice. 

Margy  trembled  violently.  Looking 
through  the  open  window,  she  saw  seated 
in  a  great  arm-chair  beside  the  fireless 
grate  the  man  she  had  loved  forty  years 
before.  His  huge  form  seemed  attenu- 
ated;  the  bulk  was  there  still,  but  the 
aspect  of  strength  was  gone.  His  large 
hands  hung  listlessly ;  the  very  springs 
and  sinews  of  his  frame  seemed  loosened. 
His  dark  face  had  deep  lines  scored 
across  the  brow  and  round  the  mouth. 
The  head  was  massive,  almost  splendid. 
But  the  close-curling  black  hair  was  now 
a  dusty   grey.      The    shaggy  eyebrows 

291 


Thro'   Lattice- Windows 

stood  out  wrathfully.  His  shirt,  unbut- 
toned at  the  neck,  showed  his  hairy- 
chest,  and  the  magnificent  moulding  of 
his  throat.  The  eyes  were  closed  :  they 
would  never  see  again.  Under  the  deep 
hollows  of  these  projecting  brows  were 
two  dark  spots  of  shadow,  —  the  abodes 
of  night. 

4  Simon  Dellow  !  ' 

She  uttered  the  words  so  softly  that 
they  seemed  only  a  sigh. 

The  man  started,  and  stood  up.  His 
face  worked  fearfully.  Great  drops  of 
sweat   stood  upon   his  forehead. 

'  My  God,  don't  mock  me,'  he  cried. 
'  The  darkness  is  all  alive  with  faces. 
I  hear  voices :  they  come  and  go  like 
a  wind.  Am  I  mad,  as  well  as  blind? 
The  voices  come  and  go  like  little 
flames.     They  burn  me.' 

Margy  had  moved  from  the  window 
to  the  doorway,  and  stood  there  trem- 
bling. Then  she  suddenly  gathered 
courage,  and  stepped  across  the  thresh- 
old. She  came  as  near  as  she  dared 
to   the   man,  and  put  her  flowers  down 

292 


Rue  with  a  Difference 

upon  the  table.  "His  sense  of  smell, 
sharpened  by  his  loss  of  sight,  instantly 
perceived  them.  Stretching  out  his  hand, 
he  touched  the  cool,  dewy  flowers,  the 
roses,  the  pinks,  the  rue.  He  lifted 
them  one  by  one  to  his  face  with  the 
simple  wonder  of  a  child.  It  was  he 
who  trembled  now. 

But  Margy  could  bear  no  more.  She 
fled.  Had  any  one  happened  to  pass 
the  most  unfrequented  path  of  the  moor 
that  afternoon,  he  would  have  seen  this 
large-limbed,  mild-eyed  woman,  with 
her  thick  bands  of  silver  hair,  sitting 
among  the  green  bracken,  weeping  and 
laughing  like  any  hysteric  girl. 

A  hundred  memories,  at  once  poig- 
nant and  tender,  shook  her  as  she  gave 
full  play  to  her  emotions.  Not  faraway 
was  the  very  green  where  she  had  danced 
with  Dellow  forty  years  before.  She 
heard  again  the  keen  thrill  of  the  violin, 
the  clamant  voice  of  the  cornet,  the 
thud  of  rhythmic  feet  on  the  green  turf. 
The  movement  of  the  wind  in  the  wood- 
land came  to  her  ear  like  the  rustle  and 

2  93 


Thro'   Lattice- Windows 

swish  of  skirts  in  the  motion  of  the 
dance,  soft  laughter  shook  the  air,  and 
the  clatter  of  excited  voices.  When  a 
blackbird  ran  over  its  mellow  bravura 
in  the  wood,  it  was  as  though  a  human 
voice  had  sounded.  She  almost  saw 
the  whirling  figures  on  the  Green,  as 
men  have  talked  of  seeing  insubstantial 
forms  of  ghost  or  fay  dancing  in  the 
wooded  hollows  of  the  moonlit  midnight 
forests.  All  the  time  she  saw  also  an- 
other thing,  —  a  dark,  blind  face,  a  thing 
dreadful  and  pitiful  to  see ;  and  she 
heard  a  hoarse  voice,  full  of  pain,  crying 
to  her  out  of  the  pit  of  Time  and  Ca- 
lamity. 

She  had  no  skill  to  read  or  analyse 
her  own  thoughts.  All  she  knew  was 
that  her  soul  still  clave  to  Simon  Del- 
low,  and  that  it  would  cleave  to  him  for 
ever. 

The  beams  of  light  had  already  begun 
to  lie  level  on  the  earth  when  she  rose. 
The  June  day  was  wearing  to  its  radiant 
end.  The  light  fell  on  a  little  pool  a 
few    yards    away,   and   a   curious   fancy 

294 


Rue  with  a   Difference 

seized  her.  She  knelt  beside  the  golden 
water,  and,  stooping  over  it,  scanned 
eagerly   her  own  face. 

'Ah,  but  I  be  old,  too  old  for  love,' 
she  whispered.  But  with  the  next  breath 
she  said,  '  Still  I  love  'en.  An'  there  's 
one  thing,  he  won't  never  see  how  old 
I  be.'  And  the  sunset,  shining  on  her 
face,  transfigured  it,  so  that  no  one  but 
herself  would  have  thought  her  too  old  for 
love.  In  that  moment  she  looked  young 
with  the  eternal  youth  of  the  affections. 

The  afternoon  wore  away  also  for 
Dellow,  but  the  sunlight  brought  him 
no  joy.  Left  to  himself,  he  sat  handling 
the  flowers  in  his  lap  with  the  same 
air  of  vacant  wonder  which  he  had  at 
first  displayed.  The  fowls  had  again 
taken  possession  of  the  doorstep,  and 
the  cochin  cock  boldly  preened  himself 
within  a  yard  of  the  blind  man's  knee. 
There  was  no  sound  in  the  room  except 
the  buzzing  of  a  large  fly,  engaged  in 
an  irritable  study  of  the  phenomenon 
of  transparency,  as  represented  in  the 
window-pane. 

295 


Thro'    Lattice-Windows 

The  man's  thoughts  were  boiling  in 
his  brain.  Every  now  and  then  he 
seemed  to  see  something  clearly,  as  one 
sees  a  glittering  peak  suddenly  emerge 
from  the  caldron  of  the  mountain  mists, 
hang  suspended  for  an  instant,  and  then 
vanish  like  a  tinted  bubble.  Since  his 
accident  such  rage  and  passion  had 
possessed  him,  that  his  fear  of  madness 
was  better  justified  than  he  imagined. 
In  the  vague  darkness  which  surrounded 
him  all  was  spectral  and  unreal,  and  his 
simplest  impressions  had  been  intensified 
into  terrifying  poignancy. 

He  tried  in  vain  to  distinguish  what 
had  happened  to  him.  The  flow- 
ers seemed  real :  touching  them,  he 
seemed  to  hold  on  to  sanity.  But 
the  voice,  —  was  it  fiend's  or  wo- 
man's ?  He  had  scarcely  learned  to 
move  a  step  in  the  horror  of  physical 
gloom  which  compassed  him.  A  fear 
of  pitfalls,  precipices,  yawning  chasms, 
overcame  him,  and  turned  him  sick. 
Was  that  voice  which  spoke  his  name 
the   lure    of  some    ghostly  enemy  .  .  . 

296 


Rue  with  a   Difference 

the  whisper  of  the  fiend  tempting  him 
to  the  abyss? 

'  Simon  Dellow !  '  Surely  there  had 
been  pity,  softness,  love  in  that  sigh 
which  had  travelled  through  the  still- 
ness and  the  dark.  Something  vaguely 
recognisable,  half-familiar  too.  It  might 
come  again.  All  his  senses  were  now 
knit  together  in  a  passionate  effort  to 
listen.  It  seemed  as  if  the  drums  of  the 
ear  must  crack  with  the  intensity  of  the 
strain.  Suddenly  he  discovered  that  he 
had  an  interest  still  left  in  his  maimed 
life.  He  would  listen  for  the  sound  of 
that  voice.  It  would  certainly  speak 
again  ;   he  would  wait  for  it. 

The  next  afternoon  Margy  came 
again,  but  a  new  timidity  had  been  born 
in  her.  She  did  not  enter  the  cottage ; 
she  thrust  her  flowers  through  the  open 
lattice,  and  placed  them  on  the  little 
table  beneath  the  window.  Dellow  in- 
stantly perceived  the  fragrance,  and 
slowly  made  his  way  across  the  room. 
Margy  moved  away,  and  disappeared 
round  the  bole  of  the  great  elm. 

297 


Thro'   Lattice- Windows 

This  happened  every  afternoon  for  a 
week.  The  old  woman  who  came  in 
the  evening  to  cook  Dellow's  supper 
saw  the  room  full  of  pinks  and  rue.  He 
gave  her  no  account  of  how  they  came, 
nor  did  she  inquire.  She  was  too  much 
afraid  of  the  blind  giant  to  ask  any  ques- 
tions, and  only  too  anxious  to  perform 
her  hireling  duty  quickly  and  be  gone. 

But  all  this  time  the  voice  had  not 
spoken  again,  and  it  had  now  become 
the  one  passion  of  Dellow's  life  to  hear 
it  speak.  He  woke  each  morning  with 
a  trembling  eagerness.  The  memory  of 
its  sweetness  played  round  his  heart  like 
a  soft  flame,  and  melted  the  stubborn- 
ness of  his  anger  against  fate.  He  was 
beginning  to  suspect  that  some  one 
loved  him. 

'  Simon  Dellow !  '  At  last  the  voice 
had  spoken. 

It  was  the  Sunday  afternoon,  and  far 
off  in  the  stillness  there  palpitated  the 
faint  music  of  church  bells.  He  had 
heard  the  step  along  the  road,  he  heard 
it  pause  at  his  threshold.       It   seemed 

298 


Rue  with  a  Difference 

bolder  now,  firm  and  free ;  and  suddenly 
the  mists  in  the  man's  brain  lifted,  with- 
drew, and  left  the  past  revealed  in  vivid 
definiteness  of  outline.  He  knew  only 
one  step  which  could  strike  that  rhythm. 
He  clutched  the  arms  of  the  chair  with 
trembling  hands,  and  waited. 

'  Simon  Dellow,  I  've  come.' 

'  Who  is  it?  For  God's  sake  play  me 
no  tricks.     Who  are  you  ? ' 

Margy  came  to  his  chair,  and  stood 
quietly  before  him.  He  rose  and 
stretched  out  his  hands  toward  her. 
He  passed  them  over  her  dress,  let  them 
rest  upon  her  shoulders,  touched  her 
hair,  and  very  lightly  let  his  fingers 
follow  the  contour  of  her  face.  She 
stood  perfectly  still  till  he  had  finished. 

'Well,  Simon?'  she  said. 

'  There  was  a  woman  once,'  he  said 
slowly.  He  swallowed  a  great  sob,  and 
went  on  again  in  a  hoarse  voice,  '  A 
woman  I  loved,  but  who  did  n't  love 
me  —  ' 

'Who  said  she  didn't  love  you, 
Simon?  ' 

299 


Thro'    Lattice-Windows 

'  She  did.  I  'd  done  a  wrong  thing  — 
never  mind  what  it  was  —  an'  she  said 
she  'd  done  wi'  me.  An'  she  were  proud 
an'  would  n't  make  it  up.  An'  I  were 
proud  and  would  n't  let  her.' 

'  Suppose  she  wanted  to  make  it  up 
now,  Simon?     Would  you  let  her?' 

'  But  she  would  n't.  The  woman  I 
loved  would  n't.  'T  is  forty  years  since 
I  danced  wi'  her  on  the  May-day,  an'  I 
can  feel  the  shape  of  her  on  my  arm 
still.  I  shan't  never  see  her  any  more 
now,  but  there  's  no  mistakin'  the  shape 
of  her.' 

Margy  moved  a  little  nearer  the  blind 
man.  She  took  his  arm  and  put  it 
round  her  waist. 

'  The  woman  you  're  a-talking  of 
won't  dance  no  more  wi'  you,  Simon, 
but  she  'd  be  real  glad  to  have  you  love 
her.' 

'  But  I  be  blind.  No,  no,  that 
could  n't   be.' 

'  An'  I  be  grey.  You  can't  think  how 
grey.  O  Simon,  Simon,'  she  suddenly 
broke  out,  flinging  her  arms  about  his 

300 


Rue  with   a   Difference 

neck,  and  drawing  the  blind  face  to  her 
own,  '  don't  let 's  play  at  love  no  longer. 
I  know'd  you  loved  me  that  first  day 
when  I  called  your  name  in  at  the 
windy.  I  saw  it  in  your  face.  An'  all 
these  years  I  've  loved  you  true,  an'  not 
a  night  but  what  I  've  a-prayed  God  for 
'ee.  But  I  would  n't  never  ha'  told  'ee, 
if  you  had  n"t  been  blinded.  I  could  n't 
keep  away  no  longer  then.  Oh,  I 
could  n't.' 

Dellow  made  no  attempt  to  reply. 
Like  a  great  child  he  had  laid  his  head 
upon  her  ample  shoulder,  and  she  was 
passing  her  fingers  through  the  grey 
hair  with  the  tender  caressing  touch  of 
a  mother. 

'  But  I  be  so  blind,  so  helpless,'  the 
big  man  groaned. 

4  That 's  all  the  better  reason  why  I 
should  love  'ee,'  she  said  simply. 

Then  she  added  with  a  smile,  '  When 
a  man  be  blind,  't  is  nateral  he  can't 
make  love,  an'  therefore  he  must  just 
submit  to  be  made  love  to.  I  do  blush 
at  bein'  so  bold,  but  there  's  one  com- 

301 


Thro'   Lattice- Windows 

fort,  deary,  that  you  can't  see  me.  An' 
you  may  be  sure  o'  this,  that  if  you  'd 
had  your  vision,  I  should  n't  never  ha' 
dared  to  come  near  'ee  with  they 
flowers.' 

Dellow  laughed,  and  in  that  laugh  his 
nature  recovered  its  balance,  and  life  its 
zest. 

'  It  seems  to  me  you  be  takin'  rare 
liberties  wi'  a  blind  man,'  he  said. 

'  An'  mean  to,  unless  he  wishes  other- 
wise,' she  said. 

'  But  he  does  n't,'  whispered  Dellow. 


302 


XVI 

CRADDOCK    GOES    TO    CHURCH 

ONE  day  Craddock  received  a  letter 
bearing  the  London  postmark, 
and  ten  minutes  later  every  one  in  Tib- 
bit's  Row  was  gossiping  about  it.  As 
Sammy  Nunn,  the  postman,  went  down 
the  Row,  he  merely  winked  and  said 
'  Craddock,'  and  people  knew  what  he 
meant.  Sammy  had  strict  ideas  of  what 
was  due  to  his  calling,  and  never  went 
beyond  a  study  of  postmarks,  except  in 
the  case  of  foreign  letters,  whose  enve- 
lopes are  so  flimsy  that  an  inquiring 
mind  cannot  help  acquainting  itself  with 
their  contents.  These  rare  letters  he 
would  hold  carefully  up  to  the  light  as 
he  walked  ;  and  there  was  once  some- 
thing like  a  scandal  because  one  of  the 
nurse-maids  at  the  Vicarage  had  caught 
Sammy  in  the  act,  and  said  that  she 
knew  by  his  manner   that   he   had   per- 

3°3 


Thro'   Lattice- Windows 

ceived  through  the  envelope  the  four- 
teen large  crosses  with  which  her  lover 
was  accustomed  to  seal  his  vows. 

'Why,  a    blind    man  could    see  'em, 
missy,'  said  Sammy,  by  way  of  apology. 
*  Not  if  he  was  n't  looking  for  them,' 
was  the  retort. 

Sammy  took  his  revenge  the  next 
time  a  letter  came  by  boldly  announcing 
the  result  of  his  investigations. 

'  There  \s  only  thirteen  this  time, 
missy,'  he  said.  '  He  's  a-gettin'  cold 
out  in  them  there  furren  parts.  They 
mostly  does.' 

It  was  not  until  the  Vicar  reasoned 
seriously  with  him  that  Sammy  came  to 
see  that  there  was  any  impropriety  in 
his  conduct.  But  after  all  the  victory 
was  with  Sammy,  for  in  the  end  the  dis- 
tant lover  had  to  use  thicker  envelopes 
and  pay  extra  postage. 

It  was  very  well  known  that  Sammy 
took  no  notice  whatever  of  merely  local 
postmarks.  It  was  only  an  '  up-country ' 
postmark  that  excited  his  curiosity,  and 
a  London  postmark  most  of  all.     When 

304 


Craddock  goes  to   Church 

he  winked  and  said,  '  Craddock,'  every 
one  in  Tibbit's  Row  knew  at  once  that 
Craddock  had  received  a  letter  from 
London ;  and  as  Sammy  had  passed 
Craddock's  door  for  twenty  years,  and 
not  left  him  a  letter  more  than  half  a 
dozen  times,  it  was  clear  that  something 
extraordinary  had   occurred. 

Mrs.  Splown,  who  happened  to  be 
bargaining  with  Craddock  that  morning 
about  the  re-soling  of  her  second-best 
boots,  was  in  the  shop  when  the  letter 
came,  and  within  half  an  hour  had  set  a 
vivid  description  of  the  scene  circulating 
in  the  Row. 

'  It  'ad  a  black  edge,'  she  said,  '  an' 
the  writin'  was  a  woman's.  Craddock, 
he  looked  at  it  first  one  way,  an'  then 
another,  like  a  cat  a-playin'  with  a 
mouse.  It's  my  belief  as  some  one  'as 
died  an'  left  'im  wi'  money.  Craddock 's 
just  the  sort  o'  man  as  gets  money  left 
'en  —  him  as  ain't  got  neither  chick  nor 
child,  an'  been  a-layin'  up  money  for 
years  by  overchargin'  for  his  work.  But 
Providence  always  was  contrairy  that 
20  3°5 


Thro'   Lattice- Windows 

way.  Them  as  don't  want  nothin'  gets 
the  most,  an'  them  as  hev'  been  a-pray- 
in'  all  their  lives  reg'lar  for  the  Lord  to 
look  arter  them  gets  passed  over.' 

In  the  course  of  the  day  public  curi- 
osity grew  to  such  a  pitch  in  Tibbit's 
Row  that  several  persons  whose  boots 
showed  comparatively  slight  signs  of 
wear  went  to  Craddock  and  gave  him 
extensive  repairing  orders,  with  a  view 
to  observing  how  he  bore  his  good  luck. 
As  the  boots  of  Tibbit's  Row  never  by 
any  chance  went  to  Craddock  till  they 
were  in  the  last  stages  of  decrepitude, 
nothing  could  be  more  eloquent  of  the 
degree  of  public  interest  which  he  had 
excited. 

When  Craddock  came  out  of  his  shop 
at  dusk,  and  made  no  attempt  to  light 
his  lamp,  and  work  on  till  ten  o'clock  as 
usual,  it  was  felt  that  no  further  proof 
was  needed  of  the  change  of  circum- 
stances which  had  happened  to  him 
since  the  morning.  Persons  who  were 
accustomed  to  look  in  at  the  door  and 
say,  '  Well,  Craddock,'  now  said  respect- 

306 


Craddock.  goes  to  Church 

fully, '  Fine  night,  Mr.  Craddock,'  where- 
at he  smiled  grimly.  When  he  walked 
down  to  the  station,  and  was  seen  by 
two  small  spies  from  Tibbit's  Row 
studying  attentively  the  table  of  fares, 
suspicion  crystallised  into  certainty. 
There  was  no  doubt  that  Craddock  was 
about  to  take  a  journey,  and  as  little 
doubt  that  he  was  going  to  London  to 
claim  his  fortune. 

Craddock  did  go  to  London,  but  the 
fortune  he  brought  back  with  him  was 
an  entirely  unexpected  and  preposter- 
ous one.  It  was  a  tall,  pale  girl,  with 
dark  eyes,  which  had  a  surprising  power 
of  quiet  fire  in  them.  She  was  dressed 
in  a  fashion  that  seemed  altogether 
startling  to  Tibbit's  Row,  the  chief  items 
of  offence  being  a  bonnet  with  a  large 
feather  in  it,  and  a  red  bodice,  which  did 
not  become  her.  She  visibly  shrunk 
from  public  notice,  and  seemed  in  ill- 
health.  Craddock  gave  out  that  she 
was  his  brother's  child,  and  an  orphan. 

Now  in  a  society  where  every  one's 
antecedents  are  accurately  known,  there 

3°7 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

is  nothing  more  annoying  than  an  inex- 
plicable person.  Dinah  Craddock  was 
such  a  person.  All  that  was  known  of 
her  was  that  she  came  from  London, 
and  that  Craddock  called  her  his  niece. 
Moreover,  she  gave  no  one  the  oppor- 
tunity of  talking  with  her ;  at  the  first 
sound  of  a  footstep  on  Craddock's  thresh- 
old she  vanished  like  a  shadow.  She 
rarely  went  out  until  nightfall,  and  then 
she  went  alone.  After  a  while  people 
found  out  that  she  always  went  to  one 
place  —  a  grey  upright  stone  with  a  hole 
hewn  through  it,  which  stood  on  a  soli- 
tary crest  of  the  moor,  about  a  mile  from 
Plumridge  Green. 

This  stone  was  called  the  Menlip 
Stone,  though  no  one  could  explain 
why.  All  sorts  of  traditions  gathered 
round  it,  and  old  Mr.  Potterbee  had  been 
heard  to  say,  that  upon  the  smooth  slab 
of  rock  at  its  base  human  sacrifices  had 
once  been  offered.  A  more  sombre 
legend  was,  that  only  a  pure  woman 
dared  pass  her  arm  through  the  curious 
hole  which  perforated  it.     If  a  woman 

308 


Craddock  goes  to   Church 

who  had  sinned  attempted  to  do  so,  this 
cruel  stone  closed  upon  her  arm  like  a 
vice,  .and  maimed  her  for  life.  A  little 
pool  of  black  water  gleamed  on  its  east- 
ward side,  and  it  was  said  that  it  was 
full  of  the  souls  of  sinful  women,  whose 
voices  could  be  heard  wailing  out  of  its 
depths  when  the  moon  was  at  her  full. 
On  summer  days  children  sometimes 
picnicked  at  the  Menlip  Stone,  but  no 
one  would  be  found  there  after  dark.  It 
was  to  this  solitary  spot  that  Dinah 
Craddock  constantly  resorted. 

The  news  was  first  spread  in  Tibbit's 
Row  by  Johnny  Splown,  who  was  work- 
ing at  a  farm  in  the  neighbourhood,  and 
happened  to  pass  near  the  Menlip  Stone 
one  night  in  May  when  the  moon  was 
full. 

'  I  corned  along  careful,  walkin'  on 
tiptoe,'  he  told  his  mother,  '  for  I  was 
afeard  o'  what  I  might  see.  An'  sure 
enough,  as  I  corned  round  the  corner- 
like, some  one  rose  up  outer  the  grass, 
and  give  a  cry.  She  stood  before  yon 
gra-ate  stone,  kind  o'  prayin'  to  it,  an' 

3°9 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

puttin'  out  her  'ands.  I  seed  the  moon 
a-shinin'  on  her,  an'  I  know'd  as  it  were 
Dinah  Craddock  by  her  bonnet.  Then 
she  went  down  on  her  knees  beside  that 
other  stone  what 's  flat,  an'  started  sob- 
bin'  an'  cryin'.  An'  then  I  runned  away, 
for  though  I  know'd  it  were  Dinah,  yet 
she  seemed  most  like  a  ghost,  with  the 
moon  a-shinin'  on  her  face,  an'  I  were 
afeard.' 

It  was  perhaps  this  story,  and  the 
suggestive  tradition  of  the  Menlip  Stone, 
which  started  a  new  theory  about  Dinah 
in  the  popular  imagination.  Was  she 
one  of  the  women  who  dared  not  pass 
her  arm  through  that  cruel  aperture  in 
the  stone? 

It  was  the  fertile  brain  of  Mrs.  Splown 
which  first  hatched  this  idea,  and  she 
was  not  slow  to  impart  it. 

'  She  do  look  like  a  bad  'un,  she  do,' 
this  acute  observer  remarked.  '  Crad- 
dock don't  have  no  pride  in  'er;  'tis 
easy  to  see  that.  'T  is  my  belief  he  's 
real  ashamed  of  'er,  an'  well  he  may  be, 
a-knowin'  what   she    hev'    been.     Look 

310 


Craddock  goes  to  Church 

at  'er,  a-trapesing  round  with  that  flip- 
my-jack  bonnet  o'  hern !  You  don't 
see  Craddock  a-goin'  out  with  'er;  he 
knows  better.  It 's  enough  for  he  to 
put  up  wi'  'er  in  the  house ;  a  shameless 
hussy !  ' 

In  a  week  this  theory  had  taken  rank 
among  the  primary  beliefs  of  Tibbit's 
Row.  The  poor  girl  felt  the  sour  un- 
friendliness of  the  faces  that  surrounded 
her,  and  shrank  more  than  ever  from 
contact  with  her  neighbours.  Her  face 
had  a  sadder  pallor,  and  purple  shadows 
had  gathered  under  her  eyes.  The  gay 
bonnet  was  seen  no  more,  and  the  red 
bodice  had  been  exchanged  for  a  plain 
black  dress.  The  very  children  had 
been  warned  to  avoid  her,  and  her 
solitude  was  complete. 

Perhaps  nothing  more  would  have 
happened,  and  Dinah  would  have  been 
slowly  assimilated  into  the  social  tissue 
of  Tibbit's  Row,  but  for  an  event  which 
occurred  toward  the  end  of  July. 

She  still  went  at  intervals  to  the  Men- 
lip  Stone,  drawn  to   it  by  some   occult 

3ii 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

affinity,  though  latterly  she  had  reached 
it  by  a  roundabout  way,  which  she  took 
on  purpose  to  avoid  observation.  On 
this  summer  evening  she  set  out  as 
usual,  walking  with  her  head  sunk  on 
her  bosom  in  forlorn  thought.  The 
stone  stood  upon  a  grassy  barrow,  on 
which  lines  of  encampment  could  still 
be  traced  by  the  learned.  Quiet  sheep 
now  fed  on  these  slopes  where  men 
had  fought,  and  there  was  no  stir  of 
life  save  the  motion  of  the  wind,  break- 
ing in  long  waves  of  sound,  as  upon  a 
phantasmal  beach.  On  the  apex  of  the 
slope  the  granite  mass  of  the  Menlip 
pierced  the  blue  sky  like  an  attenuated 
obelisk. 

Approaching  from  the  side  which 
Dinah  had  chosen,  it  was  not  possible 
to  see  the  whole  bulk  of  the  Menlip  till 
the  summit  was  reached,  for  though  it 
appeared  to  crown  the  exact  apex  of 
the  barrow,  in  reality  its  base  was  a  few 
feet  lower  than  the  summit.  The  way 
she  had  chosen  was  unfrequented :  the 
usual   path   being  on  the  other  side   of 

312 


Craddock  goes  to   Church 

the  barrow,  for  this  was  the  southward 
side,  and  the  one  from  which  the  view 
of  Barford  and  the  winding  river  was 
seen.  Thus  it  happened  that  Dinah 
reached  the  stone,  only  to  find  on  the 
other  side  of  it  a  group  of  Barford 
youths  and  lasses,  who  had  been  con- 
cealed from  view  by  the  top  of  the 
ridge.  Lost  in  thought,  she  stepped 
upon  the  ridge,  and  stood  silent  a 
moment  or  two  before  she  perceived 
them.  Then  a  volley  of  jeering  laugh- 
ter saluted  her. 

Some  of  the  girls  contented  them- 
selves with  looking  at  her  curiously, 
and  then  turning  their  faces  away  in 
ostentatious  disdain.  There  was  some- 
thing so  pathetic  in  the  slight  dark- 
clothed  figure  and  pale  face,  silhouetted 
against  the  clear  sky,  that  it  ought  to 
have  moved  their  pity;  but  the  jeering 
laughter  of  the  youths  had  already 
decided  the  situation. 

'  Come  along,  and  put  your  hand  into 
the  Menlip,  Sally,'  shouted  one  of  the 
youths.     '  'T  won't  bite  'ee.' 

3r3 


Thro'    Lattice-Windows 

'  I  'm  not  afeard,'  said  Sally. 

It  was  a  challenge  which  was  instantly- 
taken  up  by  the  whole  group  of  girls. 
One  after  another  came  forward  blush- 
ing, and  thrust  a  stout  arm  into  the 
jaws  of  the  cruel  stone. 

'  Did  'ee  feel  anythin',  Sally?'  whis- 
pered one  girl. 

'  Not  I,'  said  Sally.     '  T  is  all  a  tale.' 

'I  know  one  as  durs' n't  do  it,'  said 
Johnny  Splown,  who  was  one  of  the 
party,  and  who  had  felt  a  keener  ani- 
mosity towards  Dinah  ever  since  the 
night  she  had  frightened  him  with  her 
sobbing. 

The  speech  was  the  signal  for  a  si- 
multaneous rush  on  Dinah.  She  was 
surrounded,  and  pushed  toward  the 
Menlip. 

'Now,  Dinah,  let's  see  you  do  it,' 
jeered  Johnny. 

The  hideous  bulk  of  the  thing  rose 
before  her,  darkening  all  her  thoughts. 
At  the  height  of  her  bosom  yawned  the 
terrible  hole,  like  the  mouth  of  some 
pitiless  reptile,  jagged  and  deep.     Was 

3H 


Craddock  goes  to   Church 

it  indeed  all  a  tale  that  those  cruel  jaws 
were  capable  of  closing  on  human  flesh 
and  blood?  .  .  .  She  shuddered,  shiv- 
ered, and  fell  helplessly  on  her  knees. 

'Oh,  I  can't,'  she  wailed.  'It's  cruel 
to  make  me.     Let  me  go.' 

'  I  told  'ee  so,'  jeered  Johnny.  '  I 
know'd  Dinah  durs'  n't.' 

But  the  girl  hardly  heard  him.  She 
was  lying  prone  across  the  smooth  slab 
of  granite  beneath  the  Menlip,  that  altar 
where  long  ago  women,  warm  with  life 
as  she  was,  had  been  slain  in  sacrifice. 
She  was  overwhelmed  with  shame,  sick, 
and  half-dazed  with  humiliation.  Her 
hat  had  fallen  off,  and  her  black  hair 
streamed  across  this  altar  of  a  past 
cruelty.  She  had  hurt  her  hand  in 
falling,  and  one  clear  drop  of  blood 
had  fallen  on  the  stone  where  so  much 
blood  had  been  shed. 

Some  of  the  girls  looked  at  her  now 
with  real  pity,  but  none  cared  to  help 
her.  They  stood  huddled  like  a  flock 
of  sheep  watching  her.  Then  they 
moved  away  one  by  one.     They  began 

3*5 


Thro*   Lattice-Windows 

to  laugh  as  they  went  down  the  hill. 
Their  voices  grew  fainter  in  the  dis- 
tance, and  at  last  complete  silence  set- 
tled down  upon  the  scene.  A  bird 
uttered  a  harsh  cry  in  the  darkening 
heavens.  A  sheep  came  timidly  up 
the  slope,  and  finding  a  human  creature 
still  there,  softly  padded  down  again, 
bleating  as  he  went.  The  sun  went 
down  and  the  stars  came  out.  Still 
Dinah  Craddock  had  not  moved.  She 
lay  like  one  dead  beneath  the  mouth 
of  the  Menlip ;  the  huge  stone  frowned 
over  her  masterful,  ironical,  pitiless.  It 
was  only  by  her  sobbing  that  one  could 
have  guessed  she  lived. 

Late  that  night  Craddock  sent  for  the 
curate.  Reckitt  came  at  once,  some- 
what astonished  at  such  a  request. 
Craddock  took  him  upstairs  to  the  tiny 
room  where  Dinah  was  lying  on  her 
bed. 

'  Dinah,  here  's  Muster  Reckitt,'  said 
Craddock  hoarsely. 

The  girl  opened  her  eyes  a  moment, 
and  looked  eagerly  at  the  curate. 

316 


Craddock  goes  to  Church 

'  He  looks  a  kind  man,'  she  said 
faintly. 

'  Tell  him  all  about  it,  deary,'  said 
Craddock. 

'  Oh,  I  can't.  I  'm  so  'shamed  .  .  . 
so  wicked.  I  don't  want  to  live  no 
more.  An'  I  'm  afraid  to  die.  I  can  see 
Jesus  Christ  a-sittin'  on  the  judgment- 
seat,  an'  oh  He  looks  so  stern  at  me !  ' 

In  those  words  she  had  told  all  her 
pitiful  story,  and  Reckitt  had  under- 
stood. He  sat  down  quietly  beside  the 
bed,   and  took  her  hand. 

'  Dinah,'  he  said,  '  will  you  listen  just 
a  moment?  There  was  once  a  woman 
like  you  who  saw  Jesus  Christ  go  up 
the  street  of  Jerusalem  long  ago.  Up 
to  that  time  she  had  never  thought  any- 
thing about  being  good.  She  had  done 
wrong,  because  she  was  young  and 
thoughtless,  and  had  n't  listened  to  her 
conscience.  But  when  she  saw  Jesus, 
it  came  to  her  all  at  once  how  good  He 
was,  and  how  bad  she  was.  And  then 
she  could  n't  do  wrong  any  more.  She 
ran  out  and   fell  at  his  feet,  and  dared 

3i7 


Thro'    Lattice-Windows 

not  look  into  His  face,  because,  like 
you,  she  felt  He  would  look  sternly  at 
her.  Do  you  know  what  she  saw  when 
she  did  look  up  ?  She  saw  a  face  that 
was  all  pity,  all  love,  and  kindness. 
And  then  he  stooped  and  said  softly  to 
her,  "  Thy  sins  which  are  many  are  all 
forgiven  thee:  go  in  peace  and  sin  no 
more."  ' 

Oh,  blessed  art,  that  can  distil  into  a 
few  brief  words  the  dews  of  compassion, 
and  drop  them  on  the  thirsty,  sterile 
soul !  If  Reckitt  had  done  nothing  else 
in  all  his  three  years'  toil  in  Barford  he 
had  done  enough  that  night  to  justify  a 
life  all  too  brief. 

'We  are  all  sinful,'  he  said  solemnly. 
'  Some  of  us  go  wrong  in  one  way  and 
some  in  another.  We  all  of  us  need 
pardon.  I  once  saw  a  picture  of  the 
wicked  going  away  into  punishment, 
and  in  the  corner  of  the  picture  was 
the  blessed  Lord.  But  do  you  know 
what  He  was  doing  ?  He  was  n't 
angry  —  only  grieved.  He  had  laid 
His  hand  upon  the  shoulder  of  one  of 

3i8 


Craddock  goes  to  Church 

those  unhappy  creatures,  and  so  kindly, 
that  you  could  almost  hear  what 
He  was  saying.  He  was  saying,  "  I 
don't  want  you  to  go.  It  breaks  My 
heart  to  let  you  go.  Even  now,  if  you 
will  turn  and  look  at  Me,  I  can  save 
you."  For  I  think  that  if  any  one,  even 
at  the  judgment-day,  looked  up  and 
said,  "  Lord,  I  'm  so  sorry  I  never  loved 
Thee,  but  I  love  Thee  now,"  He  would 
look  at  them  just  as  He  looked  at  that 
poor  woman  long  ago  in  the  street  of 
Jerusalem,  and  said,  "  Thy  sins  which 
are  many  are  all  forgiven.  Thou  art 
forgiven  much  because  thou  lovest 
much."  ' 

There  was  a  long  silence  in  the  little 
room.  Dinah  had  covered  her  face 
with  her  hands,  and  lay  so  still  that 
death  could  scarcely  have  been  stiller. 
The  candle,  placed  in  the  tall  candle- 
stick on  the  little  table  at  the  foot  of 
her  bed,  heightened  the  illusion.  It 
was  so  like  the  light  that  burns  beside 
the  dead  that  Craddock's  mouth  quiv- 
ered.      It    brought    back    to    him    that 

3l9 


Thro'   Lattice- Windows 

bitter  hour  long  years  before  when  .  .  . 
But  of  that  hour  he  dared  not  think. 
He  hastily  took  the  candle  and  placed 
it  on  the  window-sill. 

'  Hush,'  said  Reckitt,  laying  his  finger 
on  his  lips.  He  also  was  thinking  of 
the  dead,  but  it  was  of  the  dead  soul 
that  comes  to  life  again.  Craddock 
stood  stock-still  beside  the  window, 
with  his  back  turned,  and  once  more 
the  silence  deepened  in  the  room. 

'  Oh,  I  dare  not,'  suddenly  wailed  the 
girl.  '  I  can  see  it  move.  It  '11  crush 
me.  Don't  make  me  go  nearer  to  'en. 
I  tell  'ee  'tis  no  stone —  'tis  a  great  live 
devil,  an'  I  can  see  the  fire  a-boiling  in 
its  cruel  mouth.   .   .   .' 

She  had  sat  up  on  the  bed  now. 
Her  dark  eyes  were  a-blaze  with  terror. 
Her  hands  were  stretched  out,  as  if  to 
push  back  some  devouring  monster. 

'  Go  in  peace,  thy  sins  are  forgiven 
thee,'  said  the  curate  in  a  clear,  low 
voice. 

The  girl  looked  round  her  vacantly. 
Then,  quite  suddenly,  the  terror  passed 

320 


Craddock  goes  to  Church 

out  of  her  face  as  the  dark  shadow 
of  a  cloud  rolls  off  the  moorland.  She 
burst  into  tears. 

'  Oh,  I  've  been  so  wicked,'  she 
sobbed.  '  I  never  meant  to  be.  .  .  . 
I  allers  wanted  to  be  good.  It  hurt 
me  sore  to  do  wrong,  it  did.  ..."  Thy 
sins  which  are  many  are  forgiven  'ee." 
Oh,  but  I  do  love  Him  for  say  in'  that. 

"  Gentle  Jesus,  meek  an'  mild, 
Look  upon  a  little  child." 

I  used  to  say  that  once  .  .  .  maybe 
He  '11  hear  me  if  I  say  it  agen.' 

The  curate's  eyes  shone.  '  I  can  do 
no  more,'  he  said.  '  But  she 's  found 
the  right  road,  and  a  surer  hand  than 
mine  will  lead  her  back.' 

As  the  curate  went  downstairs,  Crad- 
dock laid  his  hand  on  his  arm.  '  I 
doubt,'  he  said,  '  I  've  been  wrong  about 
a  lot  o'  things.  There 's  that  prayer 
about  thankin'  God  for  deliverance  from 
this  troublesome  world,  what  I  could 
never  pray.  But  if  Him  as  is  above  be 
like  what  you  say,  it  makes  a  power  o' 
21  321 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

difference.  Maybe  when  he  took  my 
little  maid,  it  were  because  He  wanted 
to  save  her  from  the  sorrow  that  poor 
soul  upstairs  hev'  know'd.  Muster  Rec- 
kitt,  I  guess  I  '11  turn  over  a  new  leaf. 
Me  an'  Dinah  '11  come  to  church  on 
Sunday,  if  you  don't  object' 


322 


XVII 

BROTHER  DYEBALL 

WHEN  a  tea-meeting  was  held  at 
the  old  Meeting-house,  it  was  the 
frugal  custom  to  dispose  of  any  super- 
fluous provision  by  auction.  Mumsley, 
mounted  upon  a  form,  with  a  cake  in 
one  hand  and  a  plate  of  sandwiches  in 
the  other,  was  then  to  be  seen  in  his 
glory.  Malicious  persons  sometimes 
remarked  that  Mumsley's  efforts  as  an 
amateur  auctioneer  were  much  superior 
to  his  attempts  as  an  amateur  preacher; 
but  they  ought  to  have  remembered 
that  he  was  naturally  more  at  home  in 
selling  things  than  in  offering  them  for 
nothing.  Some  persons  objected  to  the 
custom  altogether,  but  others  regarded 
it  as  the  most  delightful  feature  of  a 
tea-meeting.  The  first  were  those  who 
had  given  the    cakes    and    sandwiches; 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

the  second  were  those  who  purchased 
them  for  next  to  nothing. 

On  these  occasions  there  was  always 
one  episode  which  to  a  stranger  would 
have  seemed  curious  and  even  comic. 
It  was  well  known  that  Mumsley  acted 
with  deliberate  unfairness  in  knocking 
down  whole  traysful  of  provision  to  some 
of  the  poorer  people  without  so  much 
as  a  bid  being  audible. 

'  Sarah  Ann  Jenkins  has  it  at  tup- 
pence-ha'penny,' he  would  remark. 

'  Well,  I  never,'  grumbled  Mrs.  Splown, 
whose  attachment  to  Church  and  State 
was  never  proof  against  the  seduction 
of  excellent  Dissenting  victual  at  a  cheap 
rate,  and  who  therefore  never  failed  to 
be  present  on  these  occasions.  '  I  'd 
ha'  give  thruppence  for  it  mysel'.  Did  n't 
I  call  out  thruppence,  Sarah  Ann?' 

'  You  did,'  said  the  washerwoman, 
with  gloomy  conviction.     '  I  heard  ye.' 

'  All  in  good  time,'  Mumsley  replied, 
with  his  eye  severely  fixed  upon  the 
two  malcontents.  '  "  It  is  not  meet  to 
take   the    children's   bread    and    cast    it 

324 


Brother  Dyeball 

unto  .  .  ."  '  He  did  not  complete  the 
sentence,  from  a  sense  of  politeness, 
and  as  Mrs.  Splown's  knowledge  of 
Scripture  was  limited,  she  never  sus- 
pected the  insulting  nature  of  the  omit- 
ted noun.  The  true-born  '  meetingers  ' 
did,  and  grinned  genially. 

'  I  know  as  I  called  thruppence,'  said 
Mrs.  Splown  stubbornly. 

'  You  did,'  said  Mumsley,  thus  put  on 
his  defence.  '  But  a  true  hauctioneer 
don't  wait  for  no  calls.  He  do  see  a 
bid  in  people's  eyes.  'T  is  the  eye  as 
does  it,  an'  I  seed  tuppence-ha'penny  in 
the  eye  of  Sarah  Ann  Jenkins.  Was  n't 
there  tuppence-ha'penny  in  your  eye, 
Sarah  Ann?  ' 

'  There  were,'  said  Sarah  Ann,  in  a 
voice  of  timid  triumph,  as  she  hastily 
swept  the  pile  of  provision  into  her 
ample  apron,  feeling  that  this  was  pre- 
eminently a  case  in  which  possession 
was  nine  points  of  the  law. 

'  'Tain't  the  voice  as  does  it,  but  the 
eye,'  Mumsley  went  on,  magniloquently. 
'  Voices  sometimes  can't  be  heard,  but, 

325 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

brethren,    the    langwidge    of  the    heye 
can't  be  mistook.' 

It  was  one  of  Mumsley's  chief  bar- 
riers to  perfect  success  as  an  orator  that 
his  aspirates  increased  in  the  ratio  of 
his  excitement. 

Mrs.  Splown  thereupon  resolved  to 
fix  her  eye  on  Mumsley  in  such  a  way 
that  its  language  should  be  unmistak- 
able. But  here  the  unfairness  of  Mums- 
ley became  most  apparent.  He  took 
particular  care  not  to  look  in  Mrs. 
Splown's  direction  again  till  all  the  best 
lots  were  disposed  of.  It  was  not  until 
a  sordid  pile  of  broken  food  was  offered 
that  he  said  benignantly,  '  Mrs.  Splown 
has  it  at  fourpence-ha'penny,'  —  which 
was  obviously  too  much.  After  this 
manner  did  Mumsley  assert  the  rights 
of  Dissent,  and  avenge  himself  for  being 
nicknamed  a  '  meetinger.' 

But  the  most  curious  feature  of  these 
auctions  always  occurred  at  their  close. 
The  last  thing  put  up  for  sale  was  the 
naked  remainder  of  the  ham  from  which 
the  sandwiches    had    been    cut.     When 

326 


Brother  Dyeball 

Mumsley  waved  this  object  of  derision 
on  high,  there  was  a  pause,  and  it  was 
clear  that  something  perfectly  foreseen 
was  expected.  People  nudged  one  an- 
other, but  no  one  bid,  and  even  the 
most  eager  eye  was  powerless  to  arrest 
the  attention  of  Mumsley.  Then  there 
would  ensue  a  noise  as  of  a  form  creak- 
ing, in  the  remotest  corner  of  the  room. 
The  people  looked  at  one  another  and 
smiled  slightly.  Lastly,  a  tall  lean  fig- 
ure reared  itself  above  the  crowd,  and  a 
weak  voice  that  seemed  to  have  some- 
thing between  a  stammer  and  a  giggle 
in  it  said,  '  Brother  Dyeball  will  take  the 
ham-bone.' 

To  see  Brother  Dyeball  step  forward 
with  a  curious  mingling  of  cunning  and 
dignity,  of  humility  and  triumph,  and 
wrap  the  ham-bone  in  a  clean  news- 
paper which  he  had  brought  for  the 
purpose,  was  a  spectacle  at  once  ridic- 
ulous and  pathetic.  It  was  clear  that 
the  man  was  of  weak  intellect,  and  there 
was  something  in  his  attenuated  figure 
that  suggested  famine.     Yet  one  saw  at 

327 


Thro'   Lattice- Windows 

a  glance  that  his  coat,  worn  and  frayed 
as  it  was,  was  of  better  cut  and  material 
than  was  common  in  Barford.  His 
voice  also  was  singularly  pure  and  high 
in  spite  of  its  weakness,  and  had  an  in- 
definable accent  of  gentility  in  it.  His 
face  was  of  ivory  pallor,  the  jaw  long 
and  finely  rounded,  the  eyes  of  soft  blue 
like  the  cornflower,  and  set  deep  under 
shaggy  grey  eyebrows.  The  forehead 
was  high  and  arched,  the  grey  hair  was 
thin,  and  smoothly  brushed  over  the 
crown  of  the  head.  The  shoulders  were 
narrow,  and  seemed  narrower  through 
his  great  height.  He  looked  some- 
thing of  a  scarecrow;  but  perhaps  that 
suggestion  arose  from  the  knowledge 
we  had  of  his  occupation,  which  was  to 
sit  for  hours  on  farm-gates  in  the  spring, 
and  frighten  birds  away  from  the  grow- 
ing crops.  He  had  not  been  born  in 
Barford,  but  he  had  lived  there  so  long 
that  no  one  remembered  when  he  came. 
He  dwelt  in  a  mere  hut  beside  the  river, 
about  a  mile  out  of  the  town,  and  quite 
alone.     He  rarely  appeared  in  the  town 

328 


Brother  Dyeball 

except  on  Sundays,  for  it  was  the  custom 
of  the  Barford  boys  to  shout  insulting 
observations  after  him,  such  as  '  Look 
at  Dyeball's  legs,'  and  '  Who  made  your 
trowsies?  '  And  he  knew  by  experience 
that  the  only  day  when  he  could  pass 
up  Barford  High  Street  without  molesta- 
tion was  the  Sabbath.  The  reference 
to  his  legs  was  obvious.  They  were  so 
long  and  thin  that  they  reminded  one 
of  the  shanks  of  a  skeleton,  and  there 
was  always  a  foot  or  so  of  blue  cotton 
stocking  visible  between  the  hem  of  his 
trousers  and  the  top  of  his  shoes. 

After  one  of  these  Meeting-house 
auctions  I  took  a  fancy  to  wait  for 
Brother  Dyeball  as  he  came  out  of  the 
schoolroom  with  the  ham-bone  under 
his  arm.  It  was  a  clear  evening  of  early 
spring,  and  I  had  a  mind  to  taste  the 
sweet  air  after  the  acrid  heat  of  the 
schoolroom,  and  a  sudden  interest  in 
Dyeball  suggested  the  notion  of  walk- 
ing home  with  him.  The  full  moon  was 
already  in  the  sky,  and  the  earth  breathed 
softly  in  a  bath  of  silver. 

329 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

Brother  Dyeball  looked  at  me  with 
some  suspicion  as  I  joined  him,  for  I 
fancy  he  imagined  I  had  designs  upon 
the  ham-bone.  To  my  observation  that 
it  was  a  fine  evening,  he  curtly  replied 
that  he  had  seen  finer.  After  a  while 
we  reached  his  hut  beside  the  river,  and 
by  that  time  he  had  grown  sufficiently 
used  to  my  company  to  offer  no  objec- 
tion when  I  followed  him  into  his  strip 
of  garden.  The  hut  was  very  solitary. 
It  was  built  of  mud  walls  which  in  some 
pre-historic  period  had  been  white- 
washed, and  was  roofed  with  a  decaying 
thatch.  A  gaunt  fir  rose  at  its  north- 
ward angle,  towering  like  the  vast  plume 
of  a  hearse  into  the  emerald  sky.  Every- 
thing breathed  of  desolation  and  decay, 
except  the  garden,  which  was  sedulously 
well  kept. 

'  You  look  well  after  your  garden,'  I 
remarked. 

'  Yes,  yes,'  the  old  man  answered 
absently.  '  It  gives  me  something  to  do 
when  work 's  slack.' 

He  took  no  further  notice  of  me,  but 
33° 


Brother  Dyeball 

went  into  his  hut  hurriedly,  as  if  con- 
scious of  some  pressing  duty.  Left  to 
myself,  I  looked  at  the  garden  with  a  little 
closer  attention  and  was  surprised  to  find 
that  the  whole  of  one  side  of  it  was  given 
up  to  a  crop  of  what  seemed  to  be  mus- 
tard and  cress.  The  next  thing  I  ob- 
served was  that  the  mustard  and  cress 
was  sown  in  regular  forms,  which  seemed 
to  represent  letters.  This  was,  of  course, 
a  common  enough  practice  among  chil- 
dren, but  it  seemed  strange  that  Dye- 
ball  should  follow  it,  and  especially  that 
he  should  execute  the  design  upon  so 
large  a  scale.  Gardens  are  the  only 
wealth  of  the  poor,  and  it  was  all  the 
more  inexplicable  that  so  poor  a  man  as 
Dyeball  should  give  up  half  his  little 
patch  of  ground  to  so  unprofitable  a 
crop.  The  light  in  the  sky  was  so  bright 
that  I  could  easily  distinguish  the  let- 
ters formed  upon  the  soil  by  the  delicate 
green  crop.  Standing  well  back  from 
them,  I  saw  that  they  spelt  the  word 
WILLIAM,  and  underneath  the  name 
there  was  the  number   19. 

33l 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

The  next  thing  I  noticed  was  that 
Dyeball  had  lit  a  small  oil  lamp,  and  had 
placed  it  in  the  window.  As  it  was  not 
nearly  dark  this  seemed  an  extravagance, 
and,  moreover,  it  was  curious  that  he 
should  place  it  so  conspicuously  in  the 
window.  Suddenly  I  remembered  that 
often  when  I  had  come  home  late  along 
the  road  I  had  seen  that  tiny  yellow  star 
burning  in  Dyeball's  house,  a  mere  spark 
of  flame  at  the  end  of  a  deep  funnel  of 
blackness.  I  was  pondering  these  things 
when  Dyeball  came  out  of  his  cottage. 
He  seemed  to  have  entirely  forgotten 
my  presence,  and  was  talking  rapidly  to 
himself. 

'  Nineteen,  and  nigh  on  three  months, 
't  will  be  now,'  he  was  saying.  '  Three 
an'  nine  make  twenty.  A  W  and  two 
LL's:  they  little  seeds  must  know  by 
this  time  all  about  it.  T  is  forty  year 
an'  more  since  he  corned  to  me,  a-run- 
nin'  in  his  little  white  pinafore,  an'  says, 
"  There  's  something  happened  real  won- 
derful, for  the  earth  's  writ  all  over  with 
my  name."     An'  sure  enough,  there  by 

332 


Brother   Dyeball 

the  sunny  wall  where  the  peach  was 
flowered  were  his  name  all  in  green  of 
mustard  an'  cress,  —  WILLIAM,  as  plain 
as  could  be,  an'  under  it  a  2.  .  .  .  Three 
an'  nine  make  twenty.  .  .  .  Ah,  but  it 's 
a  long,  long  sum  to  add  up,  an'  some- 
way it  don't  never  seem  to  come  right. 
.  .  .  O  Lord,  you  're  such  a  long  way 
off  that  sometimes  it  do  seem  as  if 
you  have  forgot  poor  old  Brother  Dye- 
ball  !  ' 

His  voice  broke  into  a  childish  cry 
with  the  last  words.  The  old  man  stood 
just  outside  the  cottage  door  as  he 
spoke,  quite  erect,  his  hands  stretched 
out  before  him  in  protestation  and  ap- 
peal. The  full  moon  shone  upon  his 
face,  and  touched  the  angles  of  his 
quaint  figure  with  ghostly  silver.  There 
was  something  so  weird  and  desolately 
pathetic  in  the  scene  that  it  sent  a  shiver 
to  the  heart. 

'  Brother  Dyeball,'  I  cried,  '  what  is 
it?     What's  the  matter?' 

But  it  was  quite  evident  he  did  not 
hear  me.     When  I  touched  his  hand  it 

333 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

was  stiff  and  cold.  He  had  passed  into 
a  cataleptic  condition.  He  stood  as 
though  rooted  to  the  ground,  the  moon- 
light seeming  to  drip  off  him,  as  the 
water  sparkles  off  some  stone  figure  in 
a  fountain.  The  spot  was  so  solitary, 
the  plume-like  fir  lifted  into  the  sky  so 
black,  the  gaunt  figure  of  the  old  man 
rigid  in  the  moonshine  so  dreadful,  that 
a  brave  man  might  have  been  forgiven 
a  shudder. 

To  leave  him  in  such  a  condition, 
even  to  seek  help,  was  impossible. 
Naturally,  therefore,  I  edged  myself 
behind  his  rigid  form,  and  went  into  the 
cottage  to  see  if  I  could  find  any  means 
of  restoring  him.  It  was  a  room  so 
miserable  that  I  have  never  since  been 
able  to  remember  it  without  a  poignant 
thrill  of  pity  for  the  poor.  The  floor  was 
of  earth,  the  walls  discoloured  with  damp. 
A  piece  of  green  wood  smouldered  in 
the  broken  grate.  But  in  striking  con- 
trast to  the  general  squalor  was  the 
table,  which  was  covered  with  a  coarse 
but  perfectly  clean  white  cloth.     In  the 

334 


Brother  Dyeball 

middle  of  the  cloth  was  a  blue  dish  on 
which  lay  the  ham-bone.  There  were 
two  chairs  placed  against  the  table,  and 
two  plates  laid  upon  it.  Between  the 
two  plates  the  Bible  lay  open,  as  if 
preparation  had  been  made  for  family 
prayers. 

At  the  moment  it  did  not  occur  to 
me  to  connect  the  two  seats  placed  at 
the  table  with  anything  the  old  man  had 
said.  I  noted  the  circumstance  vaguely, 
supposing  it  to  be  an  example  of  that 
fine  instinct  of  hospitality  which  is 
always  found  among  the  poorest.  No 
doubt  Brother  Dyeball  had  intended 
asking  me  to  sup  with  him,  and  was 
coming  to  bid  me  welcome  when  the 
cataleptic  fit  had  seized  him.  A  great 
softness  of  pity  filled  my  heart  in  the 
thought  of  this  half-famished  old  man 
inviting  me  to  share  his  scanty  meal. 
Half  mechanically  I  sat  down  on  one  of 
the  chairs,  and  in  the  moment  while  I 
sat  Dyeball  must  have  shaken  himself 
free  of  his  trance.  I  heard  a  long  sigh, 
and  the  movement  of  a  foot  at  the  door. 

335 


Thro'    Lattice-Windows 

The  next  moment  he  entered  the  cot- 
tage. And  then  there  rose  from  the  lips 
of  the  old  man  a  cry,  so  thrilling  and 
piercing,  that  I  can  only  describe  it  as 
the  voice   of  an  agonized  joy. 

'  William  ! ' 

That  was  all  —  this  one  word.  But  it 
revealed  everything.  He  sprang  upon 
me  with  an  almost  tigerish  affection. 
He  flung  his  arms  round  my  neck  and 
sobbed.  Suddenly  he  drew  back  scared, 
for  he  had  seen  my  face.  His  wits 
seemed  to  have  left  him  again,  and  he 
began  to  mutter,  '  Three  an'  nine  make 
twenty.  O  my  God,  it 's  a  long  sum  to 
add  up,  an'  someway  it  don't  never  seem 
to  come  right.  .  .  .  O  God,  have  pity 
on  poor  old  Brother  Dyeball !  ' 

I  laid  my  hand  on  his  trembling  shoul- 
ders, and  said  as  kindly  as  I  could, 
'  Brother  Dyeball,  you  've  got  some 
secret  sorrow.  Tell  me  everything.  Let 
me  be  your  friend.' 

'  I  thought  you  was  him,'  he  said  sim- 
ply, speaking  like  a  little  child  who  has 
a  lesson  to  repeat. 

336 


Brother  Dveball 

1  Your  son? '  I  said,  pretty  sure  that  I 
had  guessed  right. 

'  Yes,  William.  Two  LL's  and  a  W. 
.  .  .  They  little  seeds  is  mighty  cun- 
ning, and  by  this  time  they  knows  all 
about  it.' 

'Where  is  he?  Is  he  in  America? 
Did  you   expect  him  back?' 

'  No,  not  in  America,'  he  replied. 

1  Where,  then?  ' 

4  In  gaol.  ...  In  Belchester  gaol. 
He  never  did  nothin'  wrong,  my  Wil- 
liam. But  they  took  him  an'  shut  him 
up.  'T  is  nineteen  year  and  three  months 
ago,  an'  three  an'  nine  make  twenty,  an' 
at  twenty  they  're  bound  to  let  'en  out. 
Sometimes  I  've  heerd  tell  they  lets  'em 
out  before  the  time  is  up,  if  they  behaves 
well,  an'  I  've  been  expectin'  my  William 
every  night  this  year  an'  more.  Some- 
way I  thought  as  he  'ud  come  to-night. 
An'  when  I  see  you  a-sittin'  there  I 
thought  as  you  was  him.' 

My  eye  caught  the  open  Bible  while 
he  was  speaking.  It  was  open  at  the 
story  of  the  Prodigal  Son.  That,  and 
22  337 


Thro'   Lattice- Windows 

the  light  in  the  window,  told  their  own 
tale. 

'  Yes,'  he  said,  as  if  reading  my 
thoughts, '  the  light 's  been  burnin'  ready 
for  'en  every  night,  an'  the  Bible  's 
been  open,  for  he  always  were  a  good 
lad,  an'  fond  o'  the  Book.  I  mind  when 
he  were  a  little  chap  wi'  curly  hair,  how 
he  'd  climb  upon  my  knee  and  coax  me 
for  to  read  the  Book.  .  .  .  An'  then 
they  took  'en  an'  shut  'en  up  in  prison 
.  .  .  my  William,  as  never  did  no  wrong. 
.  .  .  You  noticed,  maybe,  that  there  mus- 
tard an'  cress  a-grovvin'  in  the  garden?  ' 
—  this  with  a  look  of  intense  craft. 

1  Yes,  I  saw  it.' 

'  I  've  growed  it  every  year  since  he 
were  took  away.  I  thought  maybe  as 
he  might  come  when  I  were  out  in  the 
fields,  an'  it  'ud  be  nice  for  him  to  see 
his  name  a-growin'  there  fresh  an'  green. 
Kinder  show  he  had  n't  been  forgot. 
William  —  an'  under  it  the  figure  o'  the 
year  since  he  were  took  away.  That 
there  father  in  the  Bible  did  n't  think  o' 
that.     He  did  n't  reckon  that  maybe  his 

338 


Brother   Dyeball 

son  'ud  come  back  when  he  were  out, 
an'  no  one  to  bid  him  stay,  an'  nothin' 
to  show  he  were  remembered.  But 
poor  old  Brother  Dyeball  thought  of  it 
...  he  thought  of  all  these  things,  an* 
acted  accordin'.' 

'  When  was  it  he  was  —  took  away  ?  ' 
I  said  gently.  '  I  might  make  inquiries 
for  you,  might  find  out  when  he  is  really 
coming  back.' 

The  old  man's  eyes  kindled,  and  he 
laid  his  hand  upon   my  arm. 

'  If  you  only  would,  sir,'  he  said. 
'  I  've  been  a  many  times  to  Belchester 
gaol  to  ask,  but  they  don't  tell  me 
nothin'.  Sometimes  they  laugh  at  me, 
an'  sometimes  they  do  say,  "  You  '11 
know  soon  enough,  never  fear."  'T  is 
real  perplexin'.  "  Tell  my  William  I've 
been,  an'  I  loves  him  well,  an'  am  waitin' 
for  'en,"  says  I.  An'  they  says,  "We'll 
try."  But  when  I  asks  them  to  let  me 
see  'en,  they  allers  says,  "  Not  to-day. 
He  can't  be  seed  to-day.  This  is  n't  the 
right  day,  you  know."  'T  is  real  per- 
plexin'.' 

339 


Thro'    Lattice-Windows 

When  I  left  him  that  night  Brother 
Dyeball  seemed  much  comforted.  The 
effort  of  unburdening  his  mind  of  its 
lonely  secret  seemed  to  have  strength- 
ened his  faculties,  and  acted  on  him 
like  a  subtle  stimulus.  He  stooped 
less,  his  voice  had  a  vibrant  note  of 
resolution  in  it,  he  once  more  wore  the 
dignity  of  a  man.  It  is  surprising  how 
swift  and  efficacious  is  the  action  of  a 
mere  drop  of  that  divine  cordial  called 
hope  upon  natures  that  have  long 
yearned  for  it  in  vain. 

A  week  later  I  happened  to  be  at 
Belchester  on  business,  and  in  the  after- 
noon I  called  on  my  old  friend  lawyer 
Trunnion,  with  a  view  to  understanding 
how  it  was  best  to  act  in  the  case  of 
Brother  Dyeball.  I  told  the  facts  as  I 
knew  them,  and  before  I  had  finished 
found  Trunnion  smiling. 

'  You  smile,'  I  said,  a  little  hotly. 
'  It  seems  to  me  one  of  the  saddest 
things  I  ever  knew.' 

'  I  was  not  smiling  in  ridicule,  but  in 
pity,  I  assure  you,'  said  Trunnion.     '  We 

34o 


Brother  Dyeball 

lawyers  often  have  to  smile  to  cover 
deeper  feelings.  It 's  just  a  professional 
habit  we  have.' 

'  Well,  can  you  do  anything  for  poor 
Dyeball?'  I  asked. 

'  He 's    past    help,    poor    fellow,'   said 
Trunnion. 

'  What  do  you  mean?  ' 
'  You   shall   hear,'  he  said.     He  rose 
and  drew  from  a  drawer  a  file  of  news- 
paper   cuttings    that    were    yellow    with 
time. 

'  Here  are  the  plain  facts.  Poor 
Brother  Dyeball,  as  you  call  him,  is  well 
enough  known  in  Belchester.  I  believe 
he  was  once  a  prosperous  tradesman 
here.  Once  a  month  at  least  he  asks 
for  admission  to  the  gaol,  and  when  he 
is  refused,  sits  all  day  staring  at  the 
stone  platform  above  the  great  gateway, 
where  they  used  to  hang  men.  Twenty 
years  ago  his  son  William  was  hanged 
over  that  gateway.   .   .   •' 

'  Hanged?  '  I  cried  in  horror. 
'  Yes.     It    was    a    clear    case    against 
him,   and   from  the   first  there    was    no 

34i 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

hope.  You  can  read  all  about  it  in  those 
newspaper  cuttings.  Dyeball  saw  him 
hanged,  and  it  broke  down  the  poor 
fellow's  reason.  He  lost  all  memory  of 
the  dreadful  scene,  and  from  that  day 
has  been  under  the  merciful  delusion 
that  his  son  is  merely  shut  up  in  Bel- 
chester  gaol,  and  will  come  out  some 
day.  They  all  know  him  at  the  gaol, 
and  pity  him,  and  don't  undeceive 
him.' 

I  thought  of  the  light  burning  in  the 
window,  and  the  open  Bible,  and  the  two 
chairs  at  the  table,  and  the  name  grow- 
ing in  the  garden,  and  I  choked. 

'  Poor  Brother  Dyeball,'  was  all  that  I 
could  say. 

Since  that  day  I  have  joined  the  con- 
spiracy to  deceive  Brother  Dyeball. 


342 


XVIII 

THE  LAST  ADVENTURE   OF 
JOHNNY   DEXTER 

THE  child  stood  quite  alone  in  the 
green  wood.  From  the  belfries 
of  the  cloud  the  note  of  a  lark  rang  shrill 
and  clear,  and  the  wind  sounded  like  a 
distant  bugle  in  the  tree-tops.  When 
the  song  of  the  lark  ceased  and  the 
wind  sank,  the  wood  was  very  still. 

The  child  was  Johnny  Dexter,  and  he 
was  quite  alone  to-day,  because  his  sis- 
ter had  been  ingloriously  captured  by 
the  schoolmaster  in  the  very  act  of  tru- 
ancy. As  the  child  had  grown  older  a 
singular  and  pathetic  frailty  had  declared 
itself  in  him.  It  was  a  little  like  the 
frailty  of  a  flower  which  is  perfectly  knit 
and  fashioned,  but  set  upon  a  stalk  so 
slender  that  we  fear  what  may  happen 
to  it  in  a  rough  wind.  There  was  no 
lack  of  soft  bloom  upon  his  cheeks  or  of 

343 


Thro'    Lattice-Windows 

eager  animation  in  his  limbs,  but  his 
blue  eyes  were  larger  than  a  child's 
should  be,  and  many  dreams  lay  in 
them.  There  was  a  certain  eagerness 
of  joy  about  his  face,  a  look  of  hunger 
and  of  wistfulness,  an  unearthliness,  if 
one  may  call  it  so.  He  was  an  imagina- 
tive child,  to  whom  the  ideal  was  real, 
and  the  real  of  very  little  interest. 

On  the  previous  night  he  had  lain 
awake  talking  with  his  sister,  until  she 
had  bidden  him  be  silent.  She  had 
commanded  silence  at  last  because 
Johnny  would  talk  of  only  sad  and 
painful  things.  He  had  explained  to 
her  at  length  his  views  upon  death,  and 
the  subject  frightened  her,  for  Polly  was 
a  healthy-minded  little  maid.  Among 
other  things  he  had  told  her  that  he 
never  saw  a  hearse  without  wondering 
what  it  would  feel  like  to  ride  in  it. 

'  Go  to  sleep,'  she  said  at  last  peremp- 
torily.    '  You  must  n't  think  about  it.' 

'  But  //  makes  me  think  about  //,'  the 
child  answered  solemnly. 

Polly  turned  on  her  side,  and  in  five 
344 


Last  Adventure  of  Johnny  Dexter 

minutes  the  hospitable  gates  of  sleep 
had  opened  to  her;  but  Johnny  lay  long 
awake,  watching  an  interminable  array 
of  hearses  defile  upon  the  darkness,  and 
wondering  whether  dead  folk  talked  to 
one  another  when  they  lay  so  close  in 
Barford  graveyard.  It  was  very  likely, 
Johnny  thought.  He  was  quite  sure 
that  when  he  was  laid  beside  his  mother 
he  would  want  to  tell  her  things ;  and 
the  first  thing  he  meant  to  tell  her  was 
how  kind  father  had  been  to  him  since 
she  died.  She  would  be  very  glad  to 
hear  that,  and  she  would  kiss  him  softly 
in  the  dark.  It  was  such  a  long,  long 
time  since  Johnny  had  been  kissed  by 
his  mother. 

But  this  bright  spring  morning  all 
these  dismal  thoughts  had  disappeared, 
and  the  waves  of  sunlight  went  rippling 
over  Johnny's  little  brain.  A  whisper 
ran  through  the  woodland,  thrilling  the 
child ;  a  thrush  uttered  a  deep  flute-cry, 
as  if  striking  the  ringing  key-note  for  all 
the  waiting  choirs  of  spring;  the  cuckoo 
spoke  —  the  sound  of  a  hoarse  soft  bell 

345 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

in  the  long-drawn  leafy  isles ;  the  dove 
called  —  the  voice  of  love  out  of  a  dim, 
mysterious  sanctuary.  In  the  exquisite 
stillness  the  murmur  of  the  grass  was 
audible — the  hum  of  a  populous  and 
busy  city.  The  sap  was  rushing  in  the 
trees  like  a  tide,  and  from  time  to  time 
sharp,  joyous  explosions  were  heard,  as 
the  bark  cracked  before  the  strain,  and 
the  sheath  of  the  leaf  burst.  The  new- 
born leaves  twinkled  in  the  sunshine  like 
green  stars ;  they  danced  together  as  if 
they  were  all  a-throb  with  life.  A  pink 
snow  of  wild  cherry-blossom  fell  softly 
on  the  grass ;  here  and  there  it  fell  also 
on  the  rounded  ridges,  sheeted  with 
purple  wind-flowers,  so  that  they  resem- 
bled the  foam-flecked  waters  of  a  wave- 
less  sea.  The  ancient  rapture  of  the 
earth,  the  joy  that  life  takes  in  itself,  the 
passion  of  mere  living,  sacred  and  im- 
memorial, shook  all  the  woodland,  and 
made  it  quiver  with  a  thousand  pulses. 
The  child  stood  quite  silent,  and  cer- 
tain tiny  seeds  of  folk-lore,  sowed  in  his 
brain  by  superstitious  generations,    be- 

346 


Last  Adventure  of  Johnny  Dexter 

gan  to  stir  and  flower.  Was  it  true  that 
the  Little  People,  each  smaller  than  the 
pink-fringed  daisy,  hid  under  these  dew- 
starred  grasses?  Was  the  cry  of  the 
pee-wit  the  cry  of  poor,  lost,  unbaptised 
children,  who  beat  their  tired  wings  at 
the  gates  of  heaven  in  vain?  Was  the 
toad,  with  his  beady,  wicked  eyes,  the 
Evil  One  himself,  watching  ambushed 
under  the  foul  dock-leaf  for  the  step  of  the 
unwary?  The  woodland  seemed  clouded 
over  for  an  instant  by  this  latter  thought. 
And  Johnny  had  never  been  baptised  — 
so  they  had  told  him  —  and  so  he  would 
never  be  with  his  mother  after  all.  He 
would  beat  his  little  tired  wings  against 
the  golden  gates,  and  she  would  never 
hear  his  cry.  Yes,  she  would,  though  ; 
and  if  no  one  else  would  open  them,  she 
would.  He  was  sure  of  that.  God 
might  do  what  He  liked,  but  this  was 
what  his  mother  would  do.  Neverthe- 
less, he  wished  he  had  been  baptised. 
It  would  have  saved  so  much  trouble ; 
and,  besides,  there  might  be  something 
in  it  after  all,  and  his  mother  might  be 

347 


Thro'    Lattice-Windows 

asleep  when  he  cried,  or  too  weak, 
perhaps,  to  unbar  the  golden  doors. 
'  'Specially  if  they  're  heavy,'  he  added 
aloud. 

He  sat  down  upon  the  stump  of  a 
beech-tree  and  began  to  think  very 
hard.  He  looked  first  to  see  if  there 
was  a  toad  beneath  it:  no,  there  was 
only  a  deep  hollow  lined  with  moss, 
with  soft  beads  of  dew  threaded  on  it. 
And,  as  he  thought,  the  thrush  drew  out 
his  flute-stop  again,  and  the  linnets,  all  in 
a  quiver  of  delight,  made  reply,  like  the 
sopranos  of  the  choir  of  spring  rehears- 
ing their  parts. 

All  at  once  another  note  began  to  be 
heard  in  the  wood,  and  the  child  lis- 
tened with  new  eagerness.  There  were 
delicious  trills  and  bravuras ;  note  tum- 
bling after  note  in  a  riotous  cascade, 
then  a  silence,  and  after  that  a  music 
so  soft  and  sweet  and  slow,  so  inten- 
tioned  and  complete,  that  no  bird  could 
equal  it.  There  was  a  sound,  too,  of 
leaves  brushed  aside  and  cracking  twigs, 
and    of  a    footstep  on    the    grass.     But 

348 


Last  Adventure  of  Johnny  Dexter 

the  music  never  ceased.  It  had  be- 
come a  silver  riot  again ;  the  notes 
danced  and  twinkled  on  the  air;  the 
very  thrush  had  fallen  dumb  in  sheer 
astonishment.  Last  of  all  a  bough 
swished  sharply,  and  a  curious  figure 
with  a  flute  came  into  view. 

He  was  an  old  man,  with  a  tangled 
mass  of  soft  white  hair.  His  cheeks 
were  thin  yet  ruddy,  and  his  eyes  of  a 
blue  like  the  sea.  He  was  very  tall, 
and  he  moved  with  a  light,  firm  step. 
His  boots  were  yellow  with  the  gathered 
pollen  of  the  meadow  flowers;  a  bunch 
of  purple-white  anemones  was  fastened 
in  his  battered  hat,  a  chain  of  daisies 
hung  round  his  throat.  A  blue  jay 
hopped  behind  him,  coming  at  his  call, 
and  a  flute  was  at  his  lips.  He  came 
along  the  wood-path,  fluting  with  all  his 
might,  and  his  eyes  shone  like  stars. 
His  clothes  were  old  and  ragged,  but 
Johnny  did  not  notice  that;  the  child's 
eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  wondrous  face 
of  the  man.  It  was  like  nothing  he  had 
ever  seen ;   it  was  infinitely  joyous,  yet 

349 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

infinitely  sad ;  it  seemed  like  a  face 
aflame.  Yet  there  was  something  wild 
and  vacant  in  it  too,  and  the  child  was 
half  afraid. 

The  man  with  the  flute  stood  still 
when  he  saw  the  child,  and  in  the 
silence  the  measured  tapping  of  a  wood- 
pecker was  heard,  and  the  hum  of 
the  grass  broke  out  again.  Then  the 
man  smiled  —  a  slow,  wise  smile  —  and 
Johnny  felt  more  at  ease. 

'  Well,  sonny,  and  who  might  you 
be?'  he  said,  speaking  slowly.  The 
voice  was  a  sweet  tenor,  with  a  curious 
quaver  in  it.  It  seemed  to  the  child 
that  it  was  the  flute  that  spoke. 

'I'm  Johnny  —  Johnny  Dexter,  that 
is,'  the  child  answered  gravely. 

'You  didn't  think  as  you'd  meet  me 
this  morning,  did  you? '  said  the  man. 

'  I  did  n't  'spect  to  meet  no  one,'  said 
the  child. 

'  But  I  knew  as  I  'd  meet  you.  Some- 
thing told  me.  That's  why  I  played  so 
loud.     It  was   to   let  you    know   I   was 


■coming.' 


35° 


Last  Adventure  of  Johnny  Dexter 

The  old  man  pushed  his  hat  back 
from  his  white  hair,  and  sat  down  beside 
the  child.  The  blue  jay  hopped  upon 
the  stump  of  a  tree  a  yard  or  so  away, 
and  gravely  watched  with  head  on  one 
side.  The  wood  had  grown  very  still, 
so  still  that  one  could  hear  the  wild 
cherry  blossom  as  it  rustled  down,  and 
the  blades  of  sword-grass  as  they  rubbed 
against  each  other  in  the  swaying  air. 

'  As  a  rule,  people  don't  like  meeting 
me,'  said  the  old  man  talking  softly,  as 
if  to  himself.  'Yet  I  love  them,  and  I 
could  show  them  many  wonderful  things 
if  I  liked.  I  can  see  what  no  one  else 
sees,  and  hear  what  the}'  don't  hear.' 

He  laughed,  and  the  blue  jay,  watch- 
ing his  mood,  chuckled  hoarsely  in 
reply.  Then  he  added,  as  if  carefully 
deliberating,  '  Rut  I  don't  know  if  you 
be  one  of  them  as  loves  me  or  not, 
and  so  I  don't  know  whether  I  can 
show  you  things  or  not.  Do  'ee  see, 
Johnny? ' 

Johnny's  small  face  grew  perplexed. 
He  had  run  into  the  wood  that  morning 

351 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

all  a-thirst  for  adventure,  and  here  was 
an  adventure  curious  enough.  But  it 
was  a  strange  thing  to  be  asked  if  he 
loved  a  man  he  had  never  seen  before. 
The  child  glanced  shyly  at  the  ruddy 
face,  and  the  keen  blue  eyes  burning  like 
keen  blue  flames  beneath  the  shaggy 
white  brows.  Upon  the  whole,  the  face 
looked  kind.  It  would  be  a  great  thing 
to  see  what  no  one  else  had  seen,  and 
hear  what  no  one  else  had  heard. 

While  the  child  sat,  puckering  his 
small  brows  in  thought,  the  old  man 
had  put  his  flute  to  his  lips  again.  He 
sounded  half  a  dozen  random  notes,  so 
piercing,  sweet,  and  mellow  that  the 
child's  pulses  leapt  in  his  veins.  Then 
the  notes  fell  into  a  tune  that  seemed  to 
breathe  all  the  mournfulness  of  things, 
so  solemn  was  it;  it  changed,  and 
seemed  like  the  bugle  of  the  spring 
blowing  through  the  woods ;  it  took 
a  swifter  measure,  and  now  the  little 
silver  notes  danced  and  leapt  like  rain- 
drops in  a  shower ;  and  the  man  rose 
and    began   to   dance   with    them.     His 

352 


Last  Adventure  of  Johnny  Dexter 

hat  fell  off,  and  his  white  hair  tossed 
upon  the  wind.  His  face  shone  with 
ecstasy,  and  seemed  more  than  ever 
like  a  face  aflame.  He  pirouetted, 
sprang  aloft,  whirled  like  a  leaf  upon 
the  equinox,  turned  this  way  and  that 
in  a  very  fantasy  of  motion,  and  all  the 
time  the  little  silver  notes  bubbled  in 
the  flute  as  though  they  could  not  come 
fast  enough.  The  blue  jay  leapt  be- 
hind his  flying  heels  in  uncouth  simula- 
tion of  his  energy.  The  very  woods 
seemed  to  dance  with  him,  and  the 
spots  of  sunlight  on  the  grass  ran  to 
and  fro,  like  the  quivering  of  yellow 
water.  The  birds  woke  up  and  sang 
with  all  their  might,  emulous  and 
envious,  and  the  wood  was  in  a  riot. 
A  squirrel  ran  across  the  grass,  and 
scampered  up  a  tree  to  watch;  the 
bright  eyes  of  a  weasel  glittered  in 
the  earthy  doorway  of  his  home.  The 
high  white  clouds  went  past  in  a  jostle 
of  eager  speed,  and  the  myriad  leaves 
flashed  and  twinkled  more  than  ever 
like  green  stars ;  and  the  wild  cherry- 
23  353 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

trees  were  all  afoam  with  the  rushing 
tides  of  spring,  and  spilled  themselves 
in  white  waves  upon  the  grass.  All  the 
while  the  man  danced,  and  the  flute 
rang  out  clearer  and  clearer  into  the 
very  heart  and  bosom  of  the  wood.  It 
was  all  so  wonderful  and  strange  that 
the  child  stood  spellbound.  But  not 
for  long.  The  man  seized  his  hand, 
and  he  also  began  to  dance.  There  was 
a  joyous  madness  in  it  all ;  the  child 
had  never  felt  so  happy  in  his  life.  His 
curls  stood  out,  like  a  whirling  mop, 
his  eyes  sparkled,  his  little  frame  was  all 
alive  with  pleasure.  Suddenly  the  flute 
stopped,  and  the  wood-magic  ended. 
The  squirrel  disappeared,  the  weasel 
vanished  in  his  hole,  the  woods  grew 
still,  and  the  blue  jay  gave  a  chuckling 
laugh. 

The  old  man  sat  down  again  upon  the 
beech-stump,  and  drew  the  boy  to  his 
knee. 

'  Well,  sonny,'  he  said,  '  that  was  pretty 
good,  was  n't  it?  Will  you  go  with  me 
now  ? ' 

354 


Last  Adventure  of  Johnny  Dexter 

'  Where  shall  we  go  ?  '  said  Johnny. 

'  Ever  so  far  away,'  said  the  man. 
'  Would  n't  you  like  to  see  the  Land  of 
Flowers  ? ' 

'What's  that?' 

'  It 's  a  place  not  far  from  here.  It's 
a  land  where  there's  always  spring.  In 
it  there  are  no  cold  winds  nor  snow, 
and  the  people  eat  four  times  a  day,  and 
when  they  sleep  they  dream  beauteous 
dreams,  and  no  one  is  unhappy.  And 
there  are  no  schools  there,  and  the  only 
bell  that  rings  is  the  bell  that  rings  them 
out  to  play.' 

He  smiled  a  little  whimsically  as  he 
uttered  this  last  sentence. 

'  It  sounds  like  heaven,'  said  Johnny 
simply. 

'  'T  is  very  like  it,'  said  the  man.  '  I 
know.' 

'  Should  I  meet  mother  there? ' 

'Why,  for  sure,  sonny.  She  's  been 
wanting  you  a  long  while,  and  has  been 
asking  every  one  she  met  if  they'd  seen 
little  Johnny  Dexter  anywheres.' 

'  How  do  you  get  there?' 
355 


Thro'   Lattice- Windows 

'  Oh,  't  is  not  far.  You  can  reach 
it  in  a  day,  and  the  road  's  quite 
easy." 

'  Could  n't  I  run  back,  and  bring  Polly 
with  me?' 

'  No,  sonny,  there  is  n't  no  time  for 
that.  They  shut  the  gates  early.  And 
besides,  Polly  '11  come  presently.  She 
is  n't  wanted  there  as  much  as  you  be, 
and  she  does  n't  want  to  go  particular. 
My  word,'  he  added,  with  the  pretence 
of  taking  out  a  watch,  '  it 's  time  we 
went,  if  we  be  going.  We  can't  afford 
to  wait  no   longer.' 

The  child  looked  up  and  said,  '  Well, 
I  think  I'll  go.' 

He  put  his  hand  into  the  hand  of  his 
strange  guide,  and  the  two  went  off  into 
the  heart  of  the  wood.  An  hour  later, 
when  the  child's  feet  grew  weary,  the 
man  began  to  play  upon  his  flute  again, 
and  all  weariness  vanished.  For  again 
the  wood  grew  alive  at  the  strange  music, 
and  joy  gave  wings  to  the  child's  tired 
feet. 

They  passed  many  places  as  they  went 
356 


Last  Adventure  of  Johnny  Dexter 

where  the  blue-bells  ran  along  the  hol- 
lows in  a  living  wave  of  colour,  and 
primroses  shone  like  fires  under  the 
shadow  of  huge  oaks  and  elms,  and 
many  times  the  child  thought  they  must 
have  come  upon  the  Land  of  Flowers  at 
last.  But  the  man  always  said,  '  Not 
yet,  —  a  little  further  on;'  and  besides 
there  was  no  sign  of  the  child's  mother 
anywhere.  Later  in  the  afternoon  a 
shrewdness  grew  upon  the  air,  and  the 
sound  of  the  sea  was  heard.  They  were 
walking  now  down  a  dim  aisle  of  plumed 
pines,  and  presently  their  feet  took  the 
sand.  The  long  sea-shore  ran  empty 
and  desolate  for  miles,  and  far  out  at 
sea  rose  a  lonely  rock  with  a  white  light- 
house on  it.  Near  the  shore,  moored  in 
a  little  cove,  a  boat  tossed,  and  in  it  lay 
a  pair  of  oars. 

A  pee-wit  cried  overhead,  and  John- 
ny's earlier  morning  thoughts  came  back 
to  him.  He  thought  of  that  appalling 
legend  of  the  unbaptised  children,  and 
he  felt  sad.  Then  he  bethought  him 
that  this  wise  old  man  might  know  all 

357 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

about  that  too,  and  he  suddenly  resolved 
to  ask  him. 

'  Have  you  to  be  chrissened  to  get 
into  the  Land  of  Flowers?'    he  asked. 

'Eh,  what's  that?'  said  the  old  man. 

Johnny  told  him  how  the  pee-wits 
were  the  souls  of  unchristened  children 
flying  round  the  gates  of  heaven  in  vain. 
He  spoke  very  earnestly,  but  the  old 
man  laughed  when  he  had  done. 

'If  that's  all,' he  said,  'I'll  chrissen 
'ee,  my  son.     'T  is  an  excellent  idea.' 

A  sudden  thrill  of  fear  ran  through 
the  child.  There  was  a  new  tone  in  the 
old  man's  voice,  a  wildness,  and  a  vague 
determination,  through  all  of  which 
there  ran  that  little   quaver  of  senility. 

'  I  think  I  'd  rather  not,'  said  the 
child. 

'  But  you  must,'  said  the  man.  '  Sure, 
sonny,  you  would  n't  be  a  bird  always 
crying  out  in  pain,  because  it  can't  find 
its  home.  No,  no,  we  '11  baptise  'ee  safe 
enough,  never  fear.' 

The  man  put  his  flute  to  his  mouth, 
and  began  to  play  once  more.     It  was  a 

358 


Last  Adventure  of  Johnny  Dexter 

slow,  sweet  hymn-tune ;  it  was  very  sol- 
emn, yet  it  seemed  full  of  comfort  too. 
Johnny  felt  fear  no  longer :  he  had  a 
sense  of  being  in  church. 

Before  them  lay  the  sea,  a  wide  plain 
of  soft  vague  violet.  The  little  crisping 
waves  ran  at  their  feet,  and  the  boat 
rose  and  fell  gently.  The  old  man  took 
a  handful  of  salt  sea-water,  and  sprinkled 
on  the  child's  golden  head. 

'  Johnny  Dexter,  I  baptise  'ee,  so  as 
you  may  go  safe  through  them  heavenly 
gates,'  he  said,  '  in  the  name  of  the 
Father,  and  the  Son,  and  the  Holy 
Ghost.' 

'  I  'm  glad  you  thought  of  that,'  he 
said  quietly,  when  this  strange  chrism 
was  at  an  end.  '  Sort  o'  makes  things 
easier,  my  sonny.  I  've  heard  that  peo- 
ple die  easier  for  it.' 

He  stood  erect,  looking  out  over  the 
violet  sea.  His  blue  eyes  grew  wider, 
his  frame  stiffened,  his  jaw  grew  rigid. 
For  an  instant  the  child  saw  him  as 
something  terrible  and  fantastic,  and 
would  have  fled.     But  the  man  suddenly 

359 


Thro'    Lattice-Windows 

broke  out  in  a  clear,  peremptory  voice : 
'  Now  listen,'  he  said,  '  and  do  as  you 
are  told.  You  must  get  into  this  boat, 
and  row  straight  for  yonder  rock  you 
see.  Pull  round  it  to  the  seaward  side, 
and  there  you  will  see  a  cave.  This 
cave  is  the  doorway  of  the  Land  of 
Flowers.  You  must  enter  it,  and  knock 
three  times  upon  the  wall,  and  then  the 
rock  will  open,  and  you  will  go  in  to 
the  happy  land.' 

'But  are  n't  you  going  with  me?  '  said 
the  child. 

'  I  can't,'  said  the  man.  '  But  I  'm 
going  to  see  you  go.  In  with  you 
quick.     They  shut  the  door  at  dark.' 

Johnny's  lips  began  to  tremble.  This 
was  an  end  to  his  adventure  for  which 
he  had  not  bargained.  But  the  man's 
face  had  now  grown  grim  and  pale,  and 
he  dared  not  disobey.  Beside  this,  it 
happened  that  of  all  things  he  had 
longed  for,  the  chief  thing  was  a  boat. 
He  knew  very  well  that  he  could  row, 
and  after  all  the  rock  did  not  seem  far 
away,  and  the  sea  was  smooth. 

360 


Last  Adventure  of  Johnny  Dexter 

He  stepped  into  the  boat,  and  the 
man  began  to  play  upon  the  flute 
again.  The  notes  thrilled  across  the 
quiet  water  on  the  evening  air,  and  as 
the  man  played  faster,  so  it  seemed  to 
Johnny  that  he  was  compelled  to  pull 
faster  too.  He  was  tugging  at  the  oars 
now  with  might  and  main,  and  the  tide 
was  with  him.  The  man  grew  indistinct 
upon  the  shore,  but  still  a  thread  of 
melody  ran  quivering  on  the  sea.  The 
waves  began  to  leap  about  the  boat  as 
the  dappled  sunlight  in  the  woods  had 
leapt.  The  darkness  came  down,  and 
the  waves  ran  edged  with  flame.  The 
child  was  worn  out  now.  He  had 
ceased  to  row,  and  lay  very  quiet  in 
the  bottom  of  the  boat  watching  with 
frightened  eyes  the  green-blue  fire  that 
burned  in  these  heaving  waters.  Then 
he  fell  asleep  and  dreamed.  He  thought 
he  saw  his  mother  coming  to  him  with 
sea-anemones  woven  in  her  hair,  and  a 
string  of  sea-shells  round  her  throat. 
And  the  sea-shells  made  music  as  she 
came;     each    was   the    lip    from    which 

36  r 


Thro'    Lattice-Windows 

melody  was  blown.  He  heard  a  bell 
ringing  heavily  and  slow.  That  surely 
was  the  bell  that  rang  for  holiday  in  the 
Land  of  Flowers.  He  saw  a  land  starred 
with  golden  roses,  and  the  roses  smiled 
on  him.  Then  his  mother  took  him 
by  the  hand,  and  kissed  him.  And 
then  .  .  . 

It  did  not  last  a  moment.  He  heard 
the  great  bell  ringing  over  the  sunken 
edge  of  the  Shark  Rock  and  saw  a  wil- 
derness of  foam.  But  even  then  it  was 
not  all  fright  he  felt — that  soft  fluting 
music  still  rang  along  his  memory.  The 
Shark  Rock  has  no  mercy,  and  in  an 
instant  Johnny  Dexter  had  found  the 
Land  of  Flowers. 

In  St.  Colam  next  day,  Billy  Rose- 
vear,  the  scant-of-wit,  rose  with  the 
dawn.  His  face  was  troubled,  for  he 
had  done  something  the  day  before  of 
which  he  had  no  memory.  He  tried  to 
patch  together  the  ravelled  threads  of 
recollection,  but  in  vain.  He  looked 
upon  the  faded  flowers  in  his  hat,  and 
sighed.      He  was  not  sure    whether  the 

362 


Last  Adventure  of  Johnny  Dexter 

thing  that  he  had  done  was  kind  or 
wicked,  and  there  was  no  one  to  tell 
him.  Well,  what  did  it  matter?  He 
blew  a  few  notes  upon  his  flute,  and 
his  sense  of  the  joy  of  life  came  back 
to  him.  For  Billy  the  world  held 
neither  past  nor  future ;  life  was  an 
eternal  present  tense. 

As  he  went  up  the  street,  sounding 
soft  notes  upon  his  flute,  his  face  was 
like  vacant  water,  on  which  the  tide  of 
yesterday  leaves  no  sign. 

When  some  one — a  stranger  in  the 
place  —  asked,  '  Who  is  that  odd  creature 
with  the  flute?'  the  quick  reply  was, 
'  Oh,  that 's  poor  Billy  Rosevear.  He  's 
a  little  cracked,  but  quite  harmless.' 
And  so  no  one  knew  or  guessed  how  it 
was  that  Johnny  Dexter  played  truant 
so  well  on  that  spring  morning  long 
ago  that  he  strayed  into  heaven  un- 
aware. 


363 


X  I  X 

THE   GATE   OF   HEAVEN 

IT  had  so  long  been  a  certainty  with 
Reckitt  that  his  days  were  num- 
bered, that  when  one  morning  he  coughed 
a  little  more  violently  than  usual,  and 
saw  blood  upon  his  handkerchief,  he 
felt  neither  surprise  nor  fear.  On  the 
contrary,  he  smiled  faintly,  and  lay  back 
in  bed  a  long  time  thinking,  with  that 
quiet  smile,  like  a  soft  veil  of  light,  lying 
on  his  face. 

The  room  in  which  he  slept  was  the 
best  one  Mrs.  Splown's  house  could 
show,  though,  as  the  neighbours  had 
often  remarked,  '  poor  was  her  best.' 
The  carpet,  after  serving  many  more 
years  than  could  fairly  be  claimed  of 
it  in  the  curate's  living-room,  had  only 
been  relegated  to  the  bedroom  that 
spring,   in  the   hope   that   it  still  had  a 

364 


The  Gate  of  Heaven 

decade  or  so  of  endurance  left  in  it. 
Everything  in  the  room  was  of  the  same 
type.  The  door  of  the  wardrobe,  which 
had  been  smashed  by  a  former  curate 
of  athletic  tendencies,  who  was  accus- 
tomed to  take  dumb-bell  exercise  in  its 
vicinity,  had  never  been  mended ;  for 
Mrs.  Splown  regarded  curates  as  a  con- 
federacy, and  it  was  only  fair  that  what 
one  broke  another  should  put  up  with. 
A  long  and  various  race  of  clerical 
boarders  had  slept  in  that  room.  The 
splash  of  ink  upon  the  wall  near  the 
bed  recorded  the  clumsiness  of  a  curate 
long  ago,  who  had  been  accustomed  to 
write  his  sermons  in  bed,  because  he 
entertained  a  fixed  belief  that  bed  was 
the  only  proper  place  to  think  in.  The 
hole  burned  in  the  curtain  was  the  work 
of  the  same  gentleman,  whose  name  was 
still  terrible  to  Mrs.  Splown  as  a  syno- 
nym of  domestic  havoc.  It  was  this 
lodger  to  whom  Mrs.  Splown  had  pre- 
sented an  ultimatum  one  morning  to  this 
effect :  '  These  habits  under  my  roof  I 
will  no  longer   tolerate.     Signed,  Mary 

365 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

Ann  Splown.'  But  even  Mrs.  Splown 
had  admitted  that  Charles  Reckitt  was 
a  model  lodger,  whose  crowning  virtue 
was  that  he  put  up  with  anything,  and 
wanted  hardly  any  waiting  on.  Cer- 
tainly he  had  put  up  with  a  good  deal, 
and  among  many  thoughts  that  came  to 
him  that  morning  this  persistently  in- 
truded itself. 

But  it  did  not  come  to  him  by  way  of 
complaint.  He  knew  that  things  could 
not  help  being  as  they  were,  and  that 
nothing  could  alter  them.  He  had  al- 
ways been  accustomed  to  take  a  half- 
humorous  view  of  his  discomforts.  It 
troubled  him  a  little  to  think  of  lying  ill 
for  long  in  that  forlorn  room,  but  it 
troubled  him  still  more  to  think  of  the 
burdens  which  his  illness  might  impose 
on  others.  '  Poor  Mrs.  Splown,'  he 
thought.  '  She 's  done  her  best.  It 
won't  do  for  me  to  let  her  know  any- 
thing of  this.  I  '11  hold  up  as  long  as  I 
can,  and  say  nothing.  Perhaps  it  won't 
be  very  long.' 

His  eyes  roamed  round  the  room.  In 
366 


The   Gate  of  Heaven 

the  recess  by  the  fireplace  was  a  little 
shelf  of  books,  mostly  old  college  prizes. 
How  hard  he  had  toiled  to  win  them, 
and  how  eager  he  was  for  knowledge  in 
those  days  !  Now  even  knowledge  it- 
self was  ceasing  to  interest  him.  Al- 
ready the  wise  voices  of  the  earth  seemed 
far  away,  an  attenuated  murmur  like  the 
hum  of  a  school  which  one  is  leaving. 
He  seemed  in  the  last  five  minutes  to 
have  passed  into  a  land  of  strange 
silences. 

On  the  table  in  the  recess  at  the  other 
side  of  the  fireplace  stood  the  leather 
case  which  held  his  pocket  communion 
service.  Above  it  on  the  wall  hung  a 
crucifix.  The  smile  upon  his  face  gath- 
ered an  intenser  light  as  he  looked  at 
them.  He  who  had  seen  so  many  die 
was  not  afraid  of  death,  and  his  soul 
whispered  to  him  the  name  of  Him  who 
kept  the  keys  of  the  grave. 

Presently  he  rose  from  his  bed,  and 
began  to  dress.  It  was  a  slow  process, 
and  it  revealed  to  him  how  his  weakness 
was  growing  on  him.    It  gave  him  plenty 

367 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

of  time  to  think  matters  over,  and  by 
the  time  it  was  finished  he  had  arrived 
at  one  clear  conclusion.  He  would  not 
give  in  till  the  last  possible  moment. 
If  he  had  to  die,  he  prayed  God  he 
might  die  working. 

When  he  went  downstairs,  Mrs. 
Splown  was  waiting  for  him  in  the 
sitting-room,  which  also  served  as  his 
study.  It  was  a  pleasant  little  room 
when  the  sun  came  round  and  looked 
into  it  toward  afternoon,  but  in  the 
morning  it  was  cold  and  dreary.  He 
could  not  help  shivering  as  he  entered, 
for  the  fire  which  had  been  lit  an  hour 
before  had  gone  out.  Mrs.  Splown 
noticed  his  glance  toward  the  fireless 
grate,  and  began  volubly,  '  Ah,  there  's 
that  fire  out  agen.  I  told  Ameliar  Ann 
to  light  it  long  ago,  but  she  'ad  to  go 
off  to  school  at  half-past  eight,  an'  so 
she  jest  put  a  match  into  it  an'  runned 
away.  An'  I  've  been  that  moithered 
with  the  childer  this  morn,  particeler 
Tommy,  what 's  got  the  croup  a-comin' 
on,  that  I  declare  I  forgot  all  about  it.' 

368 


The   Gate  of  Heaven 

'  Oh,  never  mind  the  fire,'  said  Rec- 
kitt  cheerfully.  '  I  dare  say  we  can 
soon  put  that  right.' 

'  Well,  in  a  way  o'  speakin',  if  you  '11 
pardon  me  for  sayin'  of  it,  't  is  your  own 
fault 't  is  out,  sir.  Ameliar  Ann  thought 
you  was  a-comin'  down  directly,  an' 
would  look  after  it,  or  she  would  n't  ha' 
left  it.  She  's  a  rare  careful  little  maid 
is  Ameliar  Ann.' 

'  Yes,  I  'm  late.  I  was  n't  very  well 
this  morning,  you  see,  Mrs.  Splown.' 

For  the  life  of  him  he  could  n't  help 
making  that  confession.  A  sudden 
sense  of  his  loneliness  overcame  him. 
He  looked  timidly  at  Mrs.  Splown's  red 
face,  with  the  unexpressed  hope  that 
there  might  be  some  gleam  of  motherli- 
ness  in  it  to  encourage  him.  It  would 
have  been  an  immense  comfort  if  he 
could  have  said,  '  There  's  a  man  under 
your  roof  who  has  not  a  month  to  live. 
His  mother  is  dead  and  his  friends  are 
far  away.  Promise  to  be  kind  to  him 
for  the  little  time  that  he  will  be  here.' 
But  the  cloud  that  instantly  gathered 
24  369 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

over  Mrs.  Splown's  face  at  the  mere 
mention  of  his  not  being  well  at  once 
drove  him  back  into  silence. 

'  I  'm  sure  I  'ope,  sir,  as  you  ain't 
goin'  to  be  ill,  for  what  I  should  do  if 
you  was  ill  I  don't  know.  'T  is  moil  and 
toil  now  from  morn  till  night,  what  with 
the  childer  an'  their  ways  o'  walkin' 
where  the  most  dirt  is  — -  but  a  sick  man 
in  the  'ouse  'ud  be  worse  nor  all  the 
childer  for  work.  Twenty  year  the 
curates  hev'  lodged  wi'  me,  an'  there  's 
ne'er  one  hev'  been  sick,  save  the  one 
as  died  here  of  the  fever,  which  no  one 
could  'elp,  an'  his  friends  behaved  real 
han'some  to  me,  when  they  come  to 
berry  'im.' 

'  Oh,  don't  fear,'  said  Reckitt  quietly. 
'  I  don't  intend  to  let  myself  be  ill.  Of 
course,  as  for  dying,  that 's  another 
thing.  We  none  of  us  know  when  our 
last  hour  is  appointed.' 

'  That 's  as  true  a  word  as  ever  was,' 
said  Mrs.  Splown,  whose  mind  had  now 
been  diverted  to  a  subject  in  which  she 
took  the  deepest    interest.     '  Offen    an' 

37° 


The  Gate  of  Heaven 

often  hev'  I  said  so.  We  can  calcilate 
when  we  is  to  be  born,  but  we  none  of 
us  knows  when  we  is  to  die,  an'  there- 
fore it  becomes  us  always  to  hev'  our 
coffin-clothes  laid  up  ready,  wi'  sprigs 
o'  lavender  in  'em,  in  case  we  should  be 
took  sudden.  But  bless  me,  sir,  there  's 
your  breakfast  all  a-gettin'  cold,  an'  'tis 
close  on  ten  by  the  clock.' 

'  He  's  lookin'  rare  an'  bad,'  she  said 
to  herself  as  she  fumbled  off  into  the 
kitchen.  '  I  don't  half  like  the  look  on 
'im.  But  there,  he  do  never  look  no 
other.  'T  is  the  creaky  door  as  lasts 
longest.  When  the  wind  blows  't  is 
the  highest  chimbley  falls  first.  The 
little  chimbley  don't  take  no  'arm.  An' 
there 's  one  thing  to  be  said  for  'im, 
he  don't  give  no  trouble ;  not  near  so 
much  as  some  on  'em  as  hev'  kep'  in 
bed  if  their  finger  ached,  an'  made  me 
traipse  upstairs  wi'  their  food,  tho'  they 
was  as  strong  as  strong.' 

Reckitt  also  said  something  to  himself 
as  Mrs.  Splown  left  the  room.  He  said, 
'  Yes,  it 's  wise  not  to  let  her  know,  and 

37* 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

it  was  cowardly  of  me  to  say  what  I 
did.  She's  enough  to  trouble  her,  poor 
woman,  without  being  troubled  over 
me.  I  hope,  please  God,  I  shall  be 
able  to  get  about  to  the  end.' 

He  ate  his  breakfast  in  silence,  and 
when  the  table  was  cleared  rose  softly, 
and  found  an  old  rug,  which  he  drew 
round  his  shoulders.  'I  wouldn't  like 
to  let  her  see  me  wrapped  up  like  this,' 
he  thought.  '  It  would  be  like  blaming 
her  about  the  fire.  But  it  really  is  very 
cold.' 

He  went  to  the  little  lattice-window 
and  looked  out.  The  small  leafless 
flowers  of  the  jasmine  which  grew 
against  the  wall  were  out,  but  there 
was  no  other  sign  of  spring.  The  day 
was  grey  and  cloudy,  and  the  earth 
was  still  parched  with  the  northeast 
wind.  The  larks  alone  knew  that 
spring  was  coming,  and  sang  joyously. 
Perhaps  from  those  airy  towers  of  vis- 
ion where  they  sang  they  could  look 
over  the  round  of  the  world,  and  dis- 
cern far  off  the  spring  slowly  climbing 

372 


The  Gate  of  Heaven 

up  behind  the  herald  swallows,  with  her 
robe  of  yellow  daffodils  streaming  out 
behind  her  on  the  turbulent  nor'easter. 

1 1  should  like  to  see  the  spring 
again,'  he  said  wistfully. 

He  turned  from  the  window,  and  sat 
down  at  his  desk,  drawing  the  rug 
closer  round  his  narrow  shoulders. 
From  the  secret  drawer  at  the  back 
of  the  desk  he  drew  out  a  little  pile 
of  gold  and  counted  it  carefully.  He 
smiled  as  he  said,  'There  will  be 
enough.'  Then  he  took  from  the  desk 
many  carefully  folded  papers.  Last  of 
all  he  came  to  a  photograph  and  laid  it 
on  the  desk  beside  the  year's  almanac. 

He  sat  a  long  time  looking  at  the 
photograph  and  the  almanac.  His 
thoughts  were,  '  Easter  is  late  this  year, 
and  I  should  like  to  live  to  Easter,  for 
Olivia  is  sure  to  be  staying  at  the  Rec- 
tory at  Easter.  Not  that  it  makes  much 
difference  now.  That  dream  is  over. 
But  it  would  be  pleasant  to  see  her 
once  more  before  the  end.'  Then,  as  if 
ashamed  of  such  thoughts,  he  hastily  put 

373 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

the  photograph  back  in  its  place,  and 
locked  the  desk. 

He  looked  out  again  at  the  hard,  grey 
sky,  and  began  to  put  his  boots  on. 
He  coughed  as  he  did  so,  and  again 
there  was  that  tell-tale  spot  of  blood 
upon  the  handkerchief.  But  he  had 
long  trained  himself  in  simple  reverence 
for  duty,  and  he  saw  nothing  in  his  con- 
dition to  give  him  excuse  for  idleness. 
There  was  Dexter  to  be  visited  that 
morning.  He  had  been  ill  with  rheu- 
matic fever,  and  in  these  despondent 
hours  of  slow  recovery  was  fighting  over 
again  his  old  enemy,  the  drink.  It 
would  need  all  the  curate's  patience  for 
the  next  fortnight  to  guard  Dexter  from 
his  enemy.  And  there  were  half  a 
dozen  others  whose  souls  were  in  his 
hands.  The  night  had  not  come  yet, 
and  there  were  some  last  hours  of  light 
wherein  to  work.  The  curate  pulled  on 
his  boots  with  difficulty,  put  his  com- 
munion service  in  his  pocket,  and  went 
out. 

During  the  month  that  was  yet  to 
374 


The  Gate  of  Heaven 

elapse  before  Easter,  Reckitt  was  indefat- 
igable in  his  duties.  As  he  had  always 
looked  frail,  few  people  noticed  that  dur- 
ing this  month  he  looked  worse  than 
usual.  With  the  one  exception  of  the 
gentleman  of  athletic  tendencies,  whose 
dumb-bell  exercise  had  proved  ruinous 
to  Mrs.  Splown's  furniture,  all  the  curates 
Barford  could  remember  had  been  some- 
what pallid  youths.  It  was  as  natural 
that  curates  should  be  pale  as  that 
farmers  should  be  ruddy.  The  only  per- 
son who  seemed  to  have  the  least  reali- 
sation of  Reckitt's  condition,  strangely 
enough,  was  Dexter.  Since  the  day 
when  his  children  had  been  found, 
Dexter  had  been  a  changed  man,  and 
his  love  for  Reckitt  had  an  almost  canine 
fidelity  about  it.  Whenever  he  felt  the 
old  passion  for  drink  remastering  him, 
he  sent  for  Reckitt.  He  felt  that  Reck- 
itt alone  had  a  talisman  to  subdue  the 
monster. 

'  He 's  not  long  for  this  world,'  said 
Dexter,  with  an  accent  of  agony,  one 
afternoon    when    Reckitt    had    left    his 

375 


Thro'   Lattice- Windows 

house.  '  Those  fools  can't  see  it,  but  I 
can.  O  my  God,  can't  you  take  me, 
and  leave  him  what 's  so  much  more 
wanted  ?  ' 

But  Reckitt  never  permitted  Dexter 
to  say  a  word  to  him  on  the  subject. 
Dexter  had  to  take  refuge  in  wringing 
the  curate's  hand,  and  eyeing  him  with 
looks  of  dumb  affection.  One  day  he 
went  a  little  further.  He  had  been  to 
Belchester,  and  had  discovered  there  a 
famous  herbalist,  whose  medicine  was 
guaranteed  to  cure  all  diseases  of  the 
lungs  at  the  third  bottle.  Dexter 
brought  back  three  bottles  in  triumph, 
and  pressed  them  on  Reckitt. 

'Well,  I'll  take  the  stuff  for  your 
sake,  Dexter,'  he  said,  with  a  smile; 
and  Dexter  felt  happier,  having  a  su- 
preme faith  in  the  Belchester  herbalist 
which  was  denied  to  Reckitt.  But 
apart  from  poor  Dexter,  no  one  in  Bar- 
ford  seemed  to  have  the  least  suspicion 
of  his  condition.  There  was  a  good 
deal  of  sickness  about,  and  sickness  in 
the  usual  way  is  selfish.      People  were 

376 


The  Gate  of  Heaven 

too  busy  in  clutching  at  the  golden 
sands  of  life  for  themselves  to  notice 
that  the  curate's  hold  on  life  was 
failing. 

So  the  weeks  wore  on  to  Easter,  and 
at  last  the  bells  pealed  forth  the  resur- 
rection gladness  over  an  earth  that  had 
itself  risen  into  new  life.  The  weather 
had  now  passed  into  sudden  summer. 
The  clouds  floated  high  in  heaven,  and 
a  soft,  southwest  wind  was  abroad. 
The  curate  heard  the  bells  as  he  lay  in 
bed  that  morning.  He  crawled  out  of 
bed  that  he  might  open  the  window  to 
hear  them  better,  and  stood  listening. 
During  this  week  he  had  to  invent  the 
fiction  of  a  bad  cold,  in  order  to  satisfy 
Mrs.  Splown  that  there  really  was  a 
valid  reason  for  staying  in  bed  an  hour 
later.  In  a  box  beside  the  bed  were 
many  blood-stained  handkerchiefs  which 
told  their  own  tale.  But  of  that  box  he 
kept  the  key. 

It  was  while  he  stood  at  the  window 
that  his  cough  came  upon  him  with 
bitter  violence.      It  was  more  than  he 

377 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

could  bear,  and  he  fainted.  When  Mrs. 
Splown  came  up,  the  red  life  was  well- 
ing from  his  lips.  Concealment  was 
no  longer  possible. 

Later  that  evening  Reckitt  woke  from 
a  deep  stupor,  and  asked  for  Dexter. 
His  instinct  told  him  Dexter  would  not 
be  far  away. 

'  I  want  you  to  go  to  the  Rectory 
with  a  note, '  he  said  faintly.  '  You 
will  find  it  under  my  pillow.  I  wrote 
it  a  month  ago.  You  need  not  wait  for 
a  reply. ' 

The  note  was  addressed  to  Olivia 
Grey.  She  was  the  daughter  of  the 
Dean  of  Belchester. 

In  the  course  of  an  hour  Olivia  came 
to  Reckitt's  humble  lodgings.  Mrs. 
Splown,  who  did  not  know  who  she 
was,  showed  her  upstairs  with  an  air  of 
relief.  She  imagined  that  Olivia  was 
a  rich  relation  who  had  come  to  take 
care  of  him. 

The  tall,  proud  girl,  whose  beauty 
was  destined  to  win  her  within  a  year 
or  so  an  unhappy  marriage  and  a  fash- 

378 


The  Gate  of  Heaven 

ionable  career,  drew  near  the  dying 
curate.  She  had  once  seen  a  good  deal 
of  him  for  a  brief  month  in  Belchester, 
and  had  been  struck  with  his  fine  qual- 
ities. But  she  was  entirely  unaware  of 
the  effect  which  her  beauty  had  pro- 
duced on  him.  In  her  heart  she  re- 
sented his  request  to  come  and  see  him. 
But  her  eyes  softened  as  she  looked 
upon  the  eager  face  that  welcomed  her, 
for  after  all  she  was  a  woman  of  noble 
soul. 

The  curate  put  out  his  hand  to  her, 
and  she  took  it  impulsively. 

'  O  Mr.  Reckitt,'  she  said,  '  I  'm  so 
grieved  to  see  you  like  this.' 

'  Yes,  I  'm  dying, '  he  replied.  '  Don't 
be  afraid,'  he  added,  as  he  saw  her  turn 
pale.  '  The  end  will  not  come  just  yet. 
I  want  to  tell  you  something  ...  to 
ask  something  of  you.' 

She  sat  down  beside  the  bed,  pale 
and  uneasy. 

'  I  want  to  tell  you  I  love  you,' 
Reckitt  said  simply.  '  Of  course  I 
always   knew    it   was   no    use.      But    I 

379 


Thro'    Lattice-Windows 

have  dreamed  my  dream,  and  it  made 
me  happy.  I  have  had  what  people 
would  call  a  lonely  life.  My  father 
and  mother  died  long  ago.  I  have  no 
brothers,  or  sisters  —  no  friends.  .  .  . 
Forgive  me  if  I  loved  you  ...  I  should 
never  have  told  you  so  if  I  was  not  dy- 
ing .  .  .  but  I  felt  you  would  n't  mind 
my  telling  you  before  I  go. ' 

The  girl's  eyes  filled  with  tears. 
She  turned  her  face  away,  but  at  the 
same  time  put  out  her  hand  to  his.  '  O 
Mr.  Reckitt, '  was  all  that  she  could  say. 

'  I  want  to  ask  one  little  thing  of 
you,'  he  said  tremulously. 

She  nodded  her  head  in  silence. 

'Would  you  mind  kissing  me?  .  .  . 
It 's  a  good  deal  to  ask.  I  know  I  have 
no  right  to  ask  it.  But  no  one  has  ever 
kissed  me  since  I  was  a  child.  .  .  . 
It 's  so  lonely  to  die  with  no  one  to  .  . 

He  could  say  no  more.  His  eyes 
shone  and  his  emotion  choked  him. 
But  he  had  said  enough  to  move  the 
girl's  soul  to  its  centre.  Many  things 
came  back  to  her;  how  she  had  flushed 

380 


The  Gate  of  Heaven 

with  anger  once  when  her  sister  had 
coupled  his  name  with  hers;  how  she 
had  owned  to  herself  all  the  time  that 
this  lame  little  curate  had  a  soul  worthy 
of  any  love  ...  if  only  he  had  not  been 
lame,  and  a  friendless  curate. 

'  Oh,'  she  cried,  in  sudden  self- 
shame,  '  I  don't  deserve  that  you 
should   have    loved    me    so.' 

'  You  deserve  the  best  love,  the  best 
man  can  give  you, '  he  said  simply. 

The  silence  grew  between  them. 

Then  she  stooped,  her  eyes  full  of 
tears,  and  kissed  him  softly  on  the 
forehead.  He  lifted  her  hand  to  his 
lips  and  kissed  it. 

'  You  've  been  very  good  to  me, 
Olivia,'  he  said,  as  she  rose  to  go. 
'  I  've  often  wondered  whether  this 
hour  would  come.  I  wanted  to  live  till 
Easter,  because  I  knew  you  would  be 
in  Barford  then.  ...  I  believe  God 
has  given  me  the  only  thing  I  really 
wanted  on  earth  in  your  kiss.     Good-bye. ' 

She  stood  looking  at  him  irresolutely. 
Then  she   said,    with  sudden   emotion, 

38i 


Thro'    Lattice-Windows 

'  You  asked  me  to  kiss  you  for  pity's 
sake.  I  am  going  to  kiss  you  now  for 
your  own  sake,  because  I  honour  you. ' 
Her  face  flushed  and  paled. 

'  No,  no, '  she  added  in  a  low  voice. 
'  Let  me  tell  the  truth.  Not  because  I 
honour  you  only  —  but  because  I  love 
you. ' 

'  Olivia  ! '  whispered  Reckitt. 

'  Yes,  it  is  true, '  she  went  on  pas- 
sionately. '  You  have  helped  me  to 
see  my  own  soul.  It  is  something  that 
does  not  often  happen  in  a  woman. 
And  I  see  it  too  late. ' 

'And  I  ...  ah,  if  I  could  live;  it 
is  too  late  for  me  also,'  said  Reckitt. 

'  You  are  the  happier, '  she  answered 
bitterly. 

She  stooped  again  over  the  pallid 
forehead,   and  was  gone. 

After  that  Reckitt  lay  quite  silent 
for  a  long  time.  Dexter  had  with  diffi- 
culty gained  permission  to  sit  with  him 
till  midnight.  Toward  midnight  Reck- 
itt asked  Dexter  to  read  to  him  from 
the  Bible. 

382 


The  Gate  of  Heaven 

'  Read  one  of  the  Easter  lessons,'  he 
said.  '  Read  the  story  of  Mary  at  the 
tomb. ' 

Dexter  struggled  through  the  chapter 
with  difficulty.  When  he  had  finished, 
Reckitt  said,  as  if  talking  to  himself, 
'How  they  must  have  loved  Him  — 
those  women.  When  it  was  yet  dark, 
very  early  in  the  morning,  they  were 
there.  And  behold,  this  was  the  very 
gate  of  heaven,  for  the  stone  was  rolled 
away  .  .  .  the  gate  of  death  .  .  .  the 
gate  of  heaven.   .   .   . ' 

'You'll  take  the  medicine,  sir,  I 
humbly  trust,'  broke  in  the  voice  of 
Dexter.  '  That  man  down  to  Belches- 
ter  is  an  uncommon  clever  chap,  an'  he 
told  me  that  it  never  failed  if  it  were 
persevered  in  long  enough. ' 

*  He  was  safe  in  saying  that,'  replied 
Reckitt  with  a  smile.  But  the  point  of 
the  remark  was  lost  on  Dexter. 

'Do  'ee  take  it,  sir,'  he  pleaded. 
'  I  'm  a  clumsy-minded  man,  an'  allers 
were,  an'  I  can't  say  what  I  want  to  say. 
But,  oh  sir,  you  hev'  saved  my  soul,  an' 

383 


Thro'   Lattice-Windows 

I  can't  tell  'ee  how  I  loves  you.  .  .  . 
God  grant  as  you  may  be  better  in  the 
mornin'. ' 

'  Never  fear, '  said  Reckitt,  with  an 
attempt  at  his  old  cheery  manner.  '  I 
shall  be  better  in  the  morning.' 

He  had  not  the  heart  to  tell  Dexter 
the  truth.  But  as  he  heard  the  big 
man's  step  lumbering  down  the  narrow 
stair,  he  whispered  to  himself: 

'  Yes,  please  God,  I  shall  be  better 
in  the  morning.  With  Christ,  which  is 
far  better.  .  .  .  It 's  been  a  long  road, 
but  the  gate  of  heaven  is  not  far  off 
now.  .  .  .  There  is  a  light  upon  the 
road.   .   .   .   And  Olivia  loves  me.   .   .   . ' 

He  fell  asleep,  and  those  who  saw 
him  in  the  morning  felt  a  great  awe, 
but  no  fear.  His  face  was  the  face  of 
one  who  had  seen  a  glorious  vision. 
The  gate  of  heaven,  as  it  opened,  had  left 
a  radiance  on  the  brow  which  was  not  of 
earth  —  a  conquering  tranquillity. 


384 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


disch.«|rge-url 

FEB  *  6  1981 


L9-Series  4939 


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